THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SPANISH    HIGHWAYS   AND    BYWAYS 


SPANISH   HIGHWAYS 
AND  BYWAYS 


BY 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

Author   of   "American     Literature  " 
"The  English  Religious  Drama,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    MANY 
ENGRAVINGS    FROM    PHOTOGRAPHS 


Published  by  THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

New    York  McM 

LONDON  :    MACMILLAN    AND    CO.,    LIMITED 


COPYRIGHT,    1900, 
BY  THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.   Gushing  &  Co. — Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S. A. 


College 
Library 

DP 


JHato  Jlia 

AQUI   TIENES   TU    LIBRO 


962153 


Preface 

A  TOURIST  in  Spain  can  hope  to  understand  but  little  of 
that  strange,  deep-rooted,  and  complex  life  shut  away  beyond 
the  Pyrenees.  This  book  claims  to  be  nothing  more  than  a 
record  of  impressions.  As  such,  whatever  may  be  its  errors, 
it  should  at  least  bear  witness  to  the  picturesque,  poetic 
charm  of  the  Peninsula  and  to  the  graciousness  of  Spanish 
manners. 


Contents 

Chapter  Page 

I.      "  The  Lazy  Spaniard " i 

II.  A  Continuous  Carnival          .           .           .          .           .11 

III.  Within  the  Alhambra .          .          .          .          .          .27 

IV.  A  Function  in  Granada         .          .          .          .          -39 
V.  In  Sight  of  the  Giralda         .....        48 

VI.      Passion  Week  in  Seville 58 

VII.  Traces  of  the  Inquisition       .           .          .           .           .82 

VIII.  An  Andalusian  Type  .          .          .          .          .          .102 

IX.      A  Bull-fight 113 

X.  Gypsies    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .132 

XI.  The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets       .          .          .          .147 

XII.      Murillo's  Cherubs 162 

XIII.  The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg         .          .          .          .183 

XIV.  A  Study  in  Contrasts  ......      203 

XV.  The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid           .          .          .          .214 

XVI.      The  Funeral  of  Castelar 233 

XVII.  The  Immemorial  Fashion      .....      246 

XVIII.  Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo      .....      263 

XIX.  The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez     .           .          .           .283 

XX.  Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          .           .           .297 

XXI.      «  O  la  Senorita  !  " 338 

ix 


Contents 


Chapter 

XXII.  Across  the  Basque  Provinces 

XXIII.  In  Old  Castile . 

XXIV.  Pilgrims  of  Saint  James 
XXV.  The  Building  of  a  Shrine     . 

XXVI.  The  Son  of  Thunder 

XXVII.  Vigo  and  Away 


Page 
362 
376 

394 
409 

423 
439 


List  of  Illustrations 


San  Sebastian  ......  .    Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 
Pasajes  .........  8 

An  Arab  Gateway  in  Burgos      .          .          .          .          .          .23 

Playing  at  Bull-fight.      From  painting  by  Baye  i      ...        30 
The  Mosque  of  Cordova  .......        39 

The  Columbus  Monument  in  Granada  ....        46 

The  Alhambra.      Hall  of  Justice  .          .          .          .          -55 

Filling  the  Water -jars         .  .  .  .  .  .  .62 

Off  for  the  War.      From  painting  by  Rubio  .  .  .71 

Looking  toward  the  Darro  .  .  .          .  .  .78 

A  Milkman  of  Granada     .  .  .          .  .  .  .      101 

A  Roman  Well  in  Ronda  .          .          .          .          .          .112 

The  Giralda 131 

The  Passing  of  the  Pageants        .  .  .  .  .  .146 

The  Pageant  of  Gethsemane        .  .  .  .  .  .167 

"Jesus  of  the  Passion  "     .......      174 

"  Christ  of  the  Seven  Words "  .  .  .  .  195 

Maria  Santisima        .  .  .  .  .          .  .  .210 

A  Spanish  Monk.      From  painting  by  Zurbaran      .  .  .215 

A  Seville  Street        .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .222 

An  Old-fashioned  Bull-fight.      From  painting  by  Goya     .  .      243 

The  Bull-fight  of  To-day  .          .          .          .          .          .258 


xii  List  of  Illustrations 

Facing  Page 

The  King  of  the  Gypsies  .          .          .          .          .          .          -275 

Gypsy  Tenants  of  an  Arab  Palace        .....      290 

From  the  Golden  Tower  down  the  Guadalquivir    .  .  .311 

Cadiz,  from  the  Sea          .          .          .          .          .          .          .318 

The  Divine  Shepherd.      From  painting  by  Murillo  .          .      339 

The  Royal  Palace  in  Madrid      .          .          .          .          .          -354 

The  Royal  Family  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          -359 

The  Manzanares     .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .366 

A  Spanish  Cemetery          .          .          .          .          .          .          -375 

Toledo 382 

Toledo  Cathedral.      Puerta  de  los  Leones      .  .  .  .391 

St.  Paul,  the  first  Hermit.      From  painting  by  Ribera       .  .      398 

The  Maids  of  Honor.      From  painting  by  Velazquez        .          .      407 
Dancing  the  Sevillana         .  .          .  .          .  .  .414 

Within  the  Cloister  .          .          .          .          .          .          .423 

The  Trampler  of  the  Moors       .          .          .          .          .          .430 

Santiago  Cathedral.      Puerta  de  la  Gloria       .  .  .  .439 

St.  James.      From  painting  by  Murillo  ....      446 


SPANISH    HIGHWAYS  AND    BYWAYS 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 


"  THE    LAZY    SPANIARD  " 
et  There  is  a  difference  between  Peter  and  Peter."  —  CERVANTES  :  Don  Quixote. 

PAIN  is  a  contradiction,"  was  the  parting  word  of 
the  Rev.  William  H.  Gulick,  the  honored  American 
missionary  whose  unwearied  kindness  looked  after 
us,  during  the  break  in  official  representation,  more  effectively 
than  a  whole  diplomatic  corps.  "  Spanish  blood  is  a  strange 
mezcla,  whose  elements,  Gothic,  African,  Oriental,  are  at  war 
among  themselves.  You  will  find  Spaniards  tender  and  cruel, 
boastful  and  humble,  frank  and  secretive,  and  all  at  once.  It 
will  be  a  journey  of  surprises." 

We  were  saying  good-by,  on  February  4,  1899,  to  sun~ 
shiny  Biarritz,  whither  Mrs.  Gulick's  school  for  Spanish  girls 
had  been  spirited  over  the  border  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war. 
Here  we  had  found  Spanish  and  American  flags  draped  to- 
gether, Spanish  and  American  friendships  holding  fast,  and  a 
gallant  little  band  of  American  teachers  spending  youth  and 
strength  in  their  patient  campaign  for  conquering  the  Penin- 
sula by  a  purer  idea  of  truth.  Rough  Riders  may  be  more 
pictorial,  but  hardly  more  heroic. 


2  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

We  were  barely  through  the  custom  house,  in  itself  the 
simplest  and  swiftest  of  operations,  before  the  prophesied 
train  of  surprises  began.  One  of  our  preconceived  ideas 
went  to  wreck  at  the  very  outset  on  the  industry  of  the 
Basque  provinces.  u  The  lazy  Spaniard  "  has  passed  into  a 
proverb.  The  round  world  knows  his  portrait  —  that  broad 
sombrero,  romantic  cloak,  and  tilted  cigarette.  But  the  labo- 
rious Spaniard  can  no  longer  be  ignored.  Even  at  Biarritz  we 
had  to  reckon  with  him,  for  the  working  population  there  is 
scarcely  less  Spanish  than  French.  Everybody  understands 
both  languages  as  spoken,  and  it  is  a  common  thing  to  over- 
hear animated  dialogue  where  the  talk  is  all  Spanish  on  the 
one  side  and  all  French  on  the  other.  The  war  set  streams  of 
Spanish  laborers  flowing  over  the  mountain  bar  into  French 
territory.  Young  men  fled  from  conscription,  and  fathers  of 
families  came  under  pressure  of  hard  times.  Skilled  artisans, 
as  masons  and  carpenters,  could  make  in  Biarritz  a  daily  wage 
of  five  francs,  the  normal  equivalent  of  five  pesetas,  or  a 
dollar,  while  only  the  half  of  this  was  to  be  earned  on  their 
native  side  of  the  Pyrenees.  Such,  too,  was  the  magic  of 
exchange  that  these  five  francs,  sent  home,  might  transform 
themselves  into  ten,  eight,  or  seven  and  a  half  pesetas.  Even 
when  we  entered  Spain,  after  the  Paris  Commission  had 
risen,  the  rate  of  exchange  was  anything  but  stable,  varying 
not  merely  from  day  to  day,  but  from  hour  to  hour,  a  differ- 
ence of  two  or  three  per  cent  often  occurring  between 
morning  and  evening.  The  conditions  that  bore  so  heavily 
on  the  crafts  were  crushing  the  field  laborers  almost  to  star- 
vation. In  point  of  excessive  toil,  those  peasants  of  northern 
Spain  seemed  to  us  worse  off  than  Mr.  Markham's  "  Man 


"  The  Lazy  Spaniard  "  3 

with  the.  Hoe,"  for  the  rude  mattock,  centuries  out  of  date, 
with  which  they  break  up  the  ground,  involves  the  utmost 
bodily  exertion.  And  by  all  that  sweat  of  the  brow,  they 
were  gaining,  on  an  average,  ten  or  twelve  cents  a  day. 

No  wonder  that  discontent  clouded  the  land.  We  met 
this  first  at  Pasajes,  on  one  of  the  excursions  arranged  for  our 
pleasure  by  the  overflow  goodness  of  that  missionary  garrison. 
The  busiest  of  teachers  had  brought  us  —  a  young  compatriot 
from  a  Paris  studio  and  myself — so  far  as  San  Sebastian, 
where  she  lingered  long  enough  to  make  us  acquainted  with 
a  circle  of  friends,  and,  incidentally,  with  Pasajes.  This 
Basque  fishing  hamlet  is  perched  between  hill  and  sea,  with 
a  single  rough-paved  street  running  the  length  of  the  village 
from  the  Church  of  St.  Peter  to  the  Church  of  St.  John. 
Nature  has  not  been  chary  of  beauty  here.  The  mountain- 
folded  Bay  of  Pasajes  appears  at  first  view  like  an  Alpine 
lake,  but  the  presence  of  stately  Dutch  and  Spanish  mer- 
chantmen in  these  sapphire  waters  makes  it  evident  that 
there  must  be  an  outlet  to  the  ocean.  Such  a  rift,  in  fact, 
was  disclosed  as  the  strong-armed  old  ferry  woman  rowed  us 
across,  a  deep  but  narrow  passage  (hence  the  name)  between 
sheer  walls  of  rock,  whose  clefts  and  crannies  thrill  the  most 
respectable  tourist  with  longings  to  turn  smuggler.  The 
village  clings  with  difficulty  to  its  stony  strip  between  steep 
and  wave.  On  one  side  of  that  single  street,  the  peering  stone 
houses,  some  still  showing  faded  coats  of  arms,  are  half  em- 
bedded in  the  mountain,  and  on  the  other  the  tide  beats 
perilously  against  the  old  foundation  piles. 

Above  the  uneven  roofs,  on  the  precipitous  hillside,  sleep 
the  dead,  watched  over  by  Santa  Ana  from  her  neglected  her- 


4  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

milage.  Only  once  a  year,  on  her  own  feast  day,  is  her 
gorgeous  altar  cloth  brought  forth  and  her  tall  candles  lighted, 
while  the  rats,  who  have  been  nibbling  her  gilded  shoes  and 
comparing  the  taste  of  the  blues  and  crimsons  in  her  painted 
robes,  skurry  into  their  holes  at  the  unaccustomed  sound  of 
crowding  feet.  Pasajes  boasts,  too,  a  touch  of  historical 
dignity.  From  here  Lafayette,  gallant  young  Frenchman 
that  he  was,  sailed  for  America,  and  probably  then,  as  now, 
little  Basque  girls  ran  at  the  stranger's  side  with  small  hands 
full  of  wild  flowers,  and  roguish  Basque  boys  hid  behind 
boulders  and  tried  to  frighten  him  by  playing  brigand,  with 
a  prodigious  waving  of  thorn-branch  guns  and  booming  of 
vocal  artillery. 

But  not  the  joy  of  beauty  nor  the  pride  of  ancient  memory 
takes  the  place  of  bread.  We  approached  a  factory  and  asked 
of  the  workman  at  the  entrance,  "  What  do  you  manufacture 
here  ?  "  "  What  they  manufacture  in  all  Spain,  nowadays," 
he  answered,  "  misery."  This  particular  misery,  however, 
had  the  form  of  tableware,  the  long  rows  of  simple  cups  and 
plates  and  pitchers,  in  various  stages  of  completion,  being 
diversified  by  jaunty  little  images  of  the  Basque  ball  players, 
whose  game  is  famous  throughout  the  Peninsula.  We  finally 
succeeded  in  purchasing  one  of  these  for  fifteen  cents,  although 
the  village  was  hard  put  to  it  to  make  change  for  a  dollar,  and 
was  obliged,  with  grave  apologies,  to  load  us  down  with  forty 
or  so  big  Spanish  coppers. 

"  The  lazy  Spaniard  !  "  Look  at  the  very  children  as  they 
romp  about  San  Sebastian.  This  is  the  most  aristocratic 
summer  resort  in  Spain,  the  Queen  Regent  having  a  chalet  on 
that  artistic  bay  called  the  Concha  or  Shell.  It  is  a  crescent  of 


"  The  Lazy  Spaniard  "  5 

shimmering  color,  so  dainty  and  so  perfect,  with  guardian 
mountains  of  jasper  and  a  fringe  of  diamond  surf,  that  it  is 
hard  to  believe  it  anything  but  a  bit  of  magical  jewel-work. 
It  might  be  a  city  of  fairyland,  did  not  the  clamor  of  childish 
voices  continually  break  all  dreamy  spells.  What  energy  and 
tireless  activity !  Up  and  down  the  streets,  the  cleanest 
streets  in  Spain,  twinkle  hundreds  of  little  alpargatas,  brightly 
embroidered  canvas  shoes  with  soles  of  plaited  hemp.  Spanish 
families  are  large,  although  from  the  ignorance  of  the  mothers 
and  the  unsanitary  condition  of  the  homes,  the  mortality 
among  the  children  is  extreme.  Here  is  a  household,  for 
example,  where  out  of  seventeen  black-eyed  babies  but  three 
have  fought  their  way  to  maturity.  Spanish  parents  are 
notably  affectionate,  but,  in  the  poorer  classes,  at  least,  impa- 
tient in  their  discipline.  It  is  the  morning  impulse  of  the 
busy  mother,  working  at  disadvantage  in  her  small  and 
crowded  rooms,  to  clear  them  of  the  juvenile  uproar  by 
turning  her  noisy  brood  out  of  doors  for  the  day.  Surpris- 
ingly neat  in  their  dress  but  often  with  nothing  save  cabbage 
in  their  young  stomachs,  forth  they  storm  into  the  streets. 
Here  the  stranger  may  stand  and  watch  them  by  the  hour  as 
they  bow  and  circle,  toss  and  tumble,  dance  and  race  through 
an  enchanting  variety  of  games.  The  most  violent  seem  to 
please  them  best.  Now  and  then  a  laughing  girl  stoops  to 
whisk  away  the  beads  of  perspiration  from  a  little  brother's 
shining  face,  but  in  general  they  are  too  rapt  with  the  excite- 
ment of  their  sports  to  be  aware  of  weariness.  Such  flashing 
of  eyes  and  streaming  of  hair  and  jubilee  of  songs  ! 

One  of  their  favorite  games,  for  instance,  is  this  :  An  espe- 
cially active  child,  by  preference  a  boy,  takes  the  name  of 


6  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

milano,  or  kite,  and  throws  himself  down  in  some  convenient 
doorway,  as  if  asleep.  The  others  form  in  Indian  file,  the 
madre,  or  mother,  at  the  head,  and  the  smallest  girl,  Mariquilla, 
last  in  line.  The  file  proceeds  to  sing  :  — 

"  We  are  going  to  the  garden, 
Although  its  wicked  warden, 
Hungry  early  and  late, 
Is  crouching  before  the  gate." 

Then  ensues  a  musical  dialogue  between  the  mother  and 
Mariquilla  :  — 

Mother.  Little  Mary  in  the  rear  ! 

Little  Mary.    What's  your  bidding,  mother  dear  ? 
Mother.  Tell  me  how  the  kite  may  thrive. 

Little  Mary    [after  cautiously  sidling   up   to   the  doorway  and 
inspecting  the  prone  figure  there~\ . 

He's  half  dead  and  half  alive. 

Then  the  file  chants  again  :  — 

"  We  are  going  to  the  garden, 
Although  its  wicked  warden, 
Hungry  early  and  late, 
Is  crouching  before  the  gate." 

Mother.  Little  Mary  in  the  rear  ! 

Little  Mary.    What's  your  bidding,  mother  dear? 
Mother.  Of  the  kite  I  bid  you  speak. 

Little  Mary    [after  a  second  reconnaissance,   which  sends  her 
scampering  back  to  her  own  place~\ . 

He  whets  his  claws  and  whets  his  beak. 


"  The  Lazy  Spaniard  "  7 

Here  the  enemy  advances,  beating  a  most  appalling  tattoo:  — 

Kite.  Pum,  pum  !     Tat,  tat  ! 

Mother.  Who  is  here  and  what  is  that  ? 

Kite.  'Tis  the  kite. 

Mother.  What  seeks  the  kite  ? 

Kite.  Human  flesh  !     A  bite,  a  bite  ! 

Mother.  You  must  catch  before  you  dine. 
Children,  children,  keep  the  line  ! 

And  with  this  the  dauntless  parent,  abandoning  song  for 
action,  darts  with  outspread  arms  in  front  of  the  robber,  who 
bends  all  his  energies  to  reaching  and  snatching  away  Little 
Mary.  The  entire  line,  keeping  rank,  curves  and  twists 
behind  the  leader,  all  intent  on  protecting  that  poor  midget 
at  the  end.  And  when  the  wild  frolic  has  resulted  in  her 
capture,  and  every  child  is  panting  with  fatigue,  they  straight- 
way resume  their  original  positions  and  play  it  all  over  again. 
In  Seville  this  game  takes  on  a  religious  variation,  the  kite 
becoming  the  Devil,  and  the  madre  the  angel  Michael  defend- 
ing a  troop  of  souls.  In  Cuba  we  have  a  hawk  pitted  against 
a  hen  with  her  brood  of  chickens. 

We  stepped  into  a  Protestant  Kindergarten  one  day  to  see 
how  such  stirring  atoms  of  humanity  might  demean  them- 
selves in  school.  Talk  of  little  pitchers  !  Here  were  some 
twoscore  tiny  jugs,  bubbling  full  of  mischief,  with  one  bright, 
sympathetic  girl  of  twenty-two  keeping  a  finger  on  every 
dancing  lid.  Impossible,  of  course !  But  all  her  week's 
work  looked  to  us  impossible.  We  had  known  diligent 
teachers  in  the  United  States  ;  this  "  lazy  Spaniard,"  however, 
not  only  keeps  her  Kindergarten  well  in  hand  from  nine  to 


8  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

twelve,  but  instructs  the  same  restless  mites  —  so  many  of 
them  as  do  not  fall  into  a  baby-sleep  over  their  desks  —  in 
reading  and  counting  from  two  to  four,  gives  a  Spanish  lesson 
from  six  to  seven,  and  struggles  with  the  pathetic  ignorance 
of  grown  men  and  women  in  the  night  school  from  eight  to 
half-past  nine  or  ten. 

The  Spanish  pastor  and  his  wife,  also  teachers  in  day 
school,  night  school,  Sunday  school,  are  no  less  marvels  of 
industry.  The  multiplication  table,  lustily  intoned  to  the 
tramp  of  marching  feet,  called  us  into  a  class-room  where  the 
older  girls  were  gathered  for  lessons  in  reading  and  writing, 
arithmetic  and  geography,  sewing  and  embroidery.  The  deli- 
cate little  lady  who  presides  over  this  lively  kingdom  may  be 
seen  on  Sunday,  seated  at  the  melodeon,  leading  the  chapel 
music  —  an  exquisite  picture  of  a  Spanish  senora,  with  the 
lace  mantilla  crowning  the  black  hair  and  gracefully  falling  to 
the  slender  shoulders.  We  had  heard  her  give  an  address  on 
foreign  soil,  before  an  audience  of  a  hundred  strangers,  speak- 
ing with  an  irresistible  fervor  of  appeal,  and  no  less  charming 
was  she  at  the  head  of  her  own  table,  the  soul  of  vivacious 
and  winsome  hospitality. 

As  for  the  pastor  himself,  he  carries  the  administrative 
burdens  of  church  and  school,  teaches  the  larger  boys  morn- 
ing and  afternoon,  and  the  men  in  the  evening,  preaches  once 
on  Thursday  and  twice  on  Sunday,  and  slips  in  between  these 
stated  tasks  all  the  innumerable  incidental  duties  of  a  mission- 
ary pastorate.  And  yet  this  man  of  many  labors  is  not  only 
Spanish,  but  Philippine.  His  childhood  was  passed  at  Cavite, 
the  home  of  his  father,  a  Spanish  officer,  who  had  chosen  his 
bride  from  a  native  family.  The  boy  was  put  to  school  with 


"  The  Lazy  Spaniard."  9 

the  friars  at  Manila,  where,  rather  to  the  disgust  of  the  soldier- 
father,  he  formed  the  desire  to  enter  the  brotherhood.  He 
was  not  blind  —  what  students  are?  —  to  the  blemishes  of  his 
teachers.  He  had  often  stood  by  with  the  other  lads  and 
shouted  with  laughter  to  see  a  group  of  friars,  their  cassocks 
well  girded  up,  drive  a  pig  into  their  shallow  pond  and  stab 
the  plunging  creature  there,  that  it  might  be  counted  "  fish  " 
and  serve  them  for  dinner  on  Friday.  But  his  faith  in  the 
order  held  firm,  and,  when  his  novitiate  was  well  advanced, 
he  was  sent  to  Madrid  for  the  final  ceremonies.  Here,  by 
chance,  he  dropped  into  a  Protestant  service,  and  after 
several  years  of  examination  and  indecision,  chose  the  thorny 
road. 

All  his  wearing  occupations  do  not  dull  that  fine  sense  of 
courtesy  inherent  in  a  Spanish  gentleman.  The  sun  itself 
had  hardly  risen  when  we  departed  from  San  Sebastian,  yet 
we  found  Don  Angel  at  the  station,  muffled  in  the  inevitable 
Spanish  capa,  to  say  good-by  once  more  and  assure  us  that, 
come  what  might,  we  had  always  "  a  house  and  a  friend  in 
Spain."  We  laid  down  the  local  journal,  hard  reading  that 
it  was  with  its  denunciations  of  "  the  inhuman  barbarities  of 
the  North  Americans  toward  the  Filipinos,"  and  ventured  to 
ask  for  his  own  view  of  the  matter. 

"  The  United  States,"  he  answered,  speaking  modestly  and 
very  gently,  "  means  well  and  has,  in  the  main,  done  well. 
When  I  say  this  in  the  Casino,  men  get  angry  and  call  me  a 
Yankee  filibuster.  But  in  truth  the  Philippines  are  very  dear 
to  me  and  I  carry  a  sad  heart.  It  was  the  protocol  that  did 
the  mischief.  It  is  not  easy  for  simple  islanders  to  under- 
stand that  words  may  say  one  thing  and  mean  another.  Phil- 


io  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

ippine  faith  in  American  promises  is  broken.  And  red  is  a 
hard  color  to  wash  out.  Yet  I  still  hope  that,  when  the  days 
of  slaughter  are  over,  peace  and  life  may  finally  come  to  my 
unhappy  birthplace  from  your  great  nation.  The  Tagalos 
are  not  so  worthless  as  Americans  seem  to  think,  though  the 
climate  of  the  Philippines,  like  that  of  Andalusia,  tempts  to 
indolence.  But  strong  motives  make  good  workers  every- 
where." 


II 

A    CONTINUOUS    CARNIVAL 

"  This  periodical  explosion  of  freedom  and  folly."  — •  BECOJTER  :   El  Carna-val. 

HAVING  re-formed  our  concept  of  a  Spaniard  to  admit 
the  elements  of  natural  vigor  and  determined  dili- 
gence, we  were  surprised  again  to  find  this  tragic 
nation,  whose  fresh  grief  and  shame  had  almost  deterred  us 
from  the  indelicacy  of  intrusion,  entering  with  eager  zest  into 
the  wild  fun  of  Carnival.  Sorrow  was  still  fresh  for  the  eighty 
thousand  dead  in  Cuba,  the  hapless  prisoners  in  the  Philip- 
pines, the  wretched  repatriados  landed,  cargo  after  cargo,  at 
ports  where  some  were  suffered  to  perish  in  the  streets. 
Every  household  had  its  tale  of  loss;  yet,  notwithstanding 
all  the  troubles  of  the  time,  Spain  must  keep  her  Carnival. 
"  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  most  disheartening  features  of 
the  situation,"  said  a  Spaniard  to  us.  "  There  is  no  earnest- 
ness here,  no  realization  of  the  national  crisis.  The  poli- 
ticians care  for  nothing  but  to  enrich  themselves,  and  the 
people,  as  you  see,  care  for  nothing  but  to  divert  themselves." 
Yet  we  looked  from  the  madcap  crowd  to  the  closed 
shutters,  keeping  their  secrets  of  heartbreak,  and  remembered 
the  words  of  Zorrilla,  "  Where  there  is  one  who  laughs, 
there  is  ever  another  who  weeps  in  the  great  Carnival  of  our 
life." 

ii 


12  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

The  parks  of  San  Sebastian  were  gay  with  maskers  and 
music,  tickling  brushes  and  showers  of"  confetti,  on  our  last 
day  there,  but  the  peculiar  feature  of  the  festivity  in  this 
Basque  city  is  "  the  baiting  of  the  ox."  On  that  Carnival- 
Sunday  afternoon  we  found  ourselves  looking  down,  from  a 
safe  balcony,  upon  the  old  Plaza  de  la  Constitution,  with  its 
arcaded  sides.  The  genuine  bull-fights,  which  used  to  take 
place  here,  have  now  a  handsome  amphitheatre  of  their  own, 
where,  when  the  summer  has  brought  the  court  to  San  Sebas- 
tian, the  choicest  Andalusian  bulls  crimson  the  sand  of  the 
arena.  But  the  Plaza  de  la  Constitution,  mindful  of  its  pristine 
glory,  still  furnishes  what  cheap  suggestions  it  can  of  the 
terrible  play.  The  square  below  was  crowded  with  men  and 
boys,  and  even  some  hoydenish  girls,  many  in  fantastic  masks 
and  gaudy  dominos,  while  the  tiers  of  balconies  were  thronged 
with  eager  spectators.  A  strange  and  savage  peal  of  music 
announced  that  "  the  bull  "  was  coming.  That  music  was 
enough  to  make  the  hereditary  barbarian  beat  in  any  heart, 
but  "  the  bull "  !  At  the  further  corner  of  the  plaza,  pulled 
by  a  long  rope  and  driven  by  a  yelling  rabble,  came  in,  at  a 
clumsy  gallop,  an  astonished  and  scandalized  old  ox.  Never 
did  living  creature  bear  a  meeker  and  less  resentful  temper. 

At  first,  beaten  and  pricked  by  his  tormentors,  he  tore 
blindly  round  and  round  the  plaza,  the  long  rope  by  which 
he  was  held  dragging  behind  him,  and  sometimes,  as  he 
wheeled  about,  tripping  up  and  overturning  a  bunch  of  the 
merrymakers.  This  was  a  joy  to  the  balconies,  but  did  not 
often  happen,  as  the  people  below  showed  a  marvellous  dexterity 
in  skipping  over  the  rope  just  in  time  to  escape  its  swinging 
blow.  Sometimes  the  poor,  stupid  beast  entangled  his  own  legs, 


A  Continuous  Carnival  13 

and  that,  too,  was  a  source  of  noisy  glee.  But,  on  the  whole,  he 
was  a  disappointing  and  inglorious  ox.  He  caused  no  serious 
accident.  Nothing  could  ruffle  his  disposition.  The  scarlet 
cloaks  waved  in  his  eyes  he  regarded  with  courteous  interest ; 
he  wore  only  a  look  of  grieved  surprise  when  he  was  slapped 
across  the  face  with  red  and  yellow  banners ;  tweaks  of  the 
tail  he  endured  like  a  Socrates,  but  now  and  then  a  cruel 
prod  from  a  sharp  stick  would  make  him  lower  his  horns  and 
rush,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  nearest  offender.  The  bal- 
conies would  shout  with  the  hope  of  something  vicious  and 
violent  at  last,  but  the  mobile  crowd  beneath  would  close  in 
between  the  ox  and  his  assailant,  a  hundred  fresh  insults 
would  divert  his  attention,  and  indeed,  his  own  impulses  of 
wrath  were  of  the  shortest.  To  the  end  he  was  hardly  an 
angry  ox  —  only  a  puzzled,  baffled,  weary  old  creature  who 
could  not  make  out,  for  the  life  of  him,  into  what  sort  of  red 
and  yellow  pasture  and  among  what  kind  of  buzzing  hornets 
his  unlucky  hoofs  had  strayed. 

Finally  he  gave  the  enigma  up  and  stood  wrapped  in  a 
brown  study  among  his  emboldened  enemies,  who  clung  to  his 
horns  and  tail,  tossed  children  upon  his  back,  tickled  his  nostrils 
with  their  hat  brims,  and  showered  him  with  indignities.  The 
balconies  joined  in  hooting  him  out  of  the  plaza,  but  he  was 
so  pleased  to  go  that  I  doubt  if  human  scorn  of  his  beastly 
gentleness  really  interfered  with  his  appetite  for  supper.  He 
trotted  away  to  that  rude  clang  of  music,  the  babies  who  were 
dancing  to  it  on  their  nurses'  arms  not  more  harmless  than 
he.  And  although  that  worrying  half  hour  may  have  told 
upon  his  nerves,  and  his  legs  may  have  ached  for  the  unac- 
customed exercise,  no  blood  was  to  be  seen  upon  him.  It 


14  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

was  all  a  rough-and-tumble  romp,  nothing  worse,  but  the 
balconies  would  have  liked  it  better  had  it  been  flavored  with 
a  broken  leg  or  two.  A  few  sprawlings  over  the  rope  really 
amounted  to  so  little.  But  the  toro  de  fuego  was  to  come 
there  Tuesday  evening,  and  when  this  blazing  pasteboard  bull, 
with  fireworks  spluttering  all  over  him  from  horns  to  tail,  is 
dragged  about  among  the  throng,  there  is  always  a  fine  chance 
of  explosions,  burnings,  and  even  of  blindings  for  life. 

But  Carnival  Tuesday  found  us  no  longer  in  sunny  San 
Sebastian.  We  were  shivering  over  a  brasero  in  storied 
Burgos,  a  city  chill  as  if  with  the  very  breath  of  the  past. 
And  the  Spanish  brasero,  a  great  brass  pan  holding  a  pudding 
of  ashes,  plummed  with  sparks,  under  a  wire  screen,  is  the 
coldest  comfort,  the  most  hypocritical  heater,  that  has  yet 
come  my  way. 

Our  Monday  had  been  spent  in  a  marvellous  journey 
through  the  Pyrenees,  whose  rugged  sublimities  were  bathed 
in  the  very  blue  of  Velazquez,  a  cold,  clear,  glorious  blue 
expanding  all  the  soul.  These  are  haunted  mountains,  with 
wild  legends  of  lonely  castles,  where  fierce  old  chieftains, 
beaten  back  by  the  Franks,  shut  themselves  in  with  their 
treasure  and  died  like  wounded  lions  in  their  lairs.  We 
passed  fallen  towers  from  whose  summits  mediaeval  heralds 
had  trumpeted  the  signal  for  war,  ruined  convents  whence 
the  sound  of  woman's  chanting  was  wont  to  startle  the 
wolves  of  the  forest,  mysterious  lakes  deep  in  whose  waters 
are  said  to  shine  golden  crowns  set  with  nine  precious  pearls 
—  those  ducal  coronets  that  Rome  bestowed  upon  her  vas- 
sals —  craggy  paths  once  trod  by  pilgrims,  hermits,  jugglers, 
minstrels,  and  knights-errant,  and  shadowy  pine  groves  where, 


A  Continuous  Carnival  15 

when  the  wind  is  high,  the  shepherds  still  hear  the  weeping 
ghost  of  the  cruel  princess,  whose  beauty  and  disdain  slew 
dozens  of  men  a  day  until  her  love  was  won  and  scorned,  so 
that  she  died  of  longing. 

We  had  reached  Burgos  at  dusk  and,  without  pausing  for 
rest  or  food,  had  sallied  out  for  our  first  awe-stricken  gaze  up 
at  the  far-famed  cathedral  towers,  then  had  ignominiously 
lost  our  way  over  and  over  in  the  narrow,  crooked  streets  and 
been  finally  marched  back  to  our  hotel  by  a  compassionate, 
though  contemptuous,  policeman.  My  artist  comrade  was 
fairly  ill  by  morning  with  a  heavy  cold,  but  she  would  not 
hear  of  missing  the  cathedral  and  sneezed  three  or  four 
enraptured  hours  away  in  its  chill  magnificence.  As  we 
came  to  know  Spanish  and  Spaniards  better,  they  would 
exclaim  "  Jesus,  Maria  y  Jose ! "  when  we  sneezed,  that 
the  evil  spirit  given  to  tickling  noses  might  take  flight ;  but 
the  Burgos  sacristan  was  too  keen  to  waste  these  amenities 
on  stammering  heretics.  What  we  thought  of  the  cathedral 
is  little  to  the  purpose  of  this  chapter.  In  a  word,  however, 
we  thought  nothing  at  all ;  we  only  felt.  It  was  our  first 
introduction  to  one  of  the  monster  churches  of  Spain,  and  its 
very  greatness,  the  terrible  weight  of  all  that  antiquity, 
sanctity,  and  beauty,  crushed  our  understanding.  Like  sleep- 
walkers we  followed  our  guide  down  the  frozen  length  of 
nave  and  aisles  and  cloisters;  we  went  the  round  of  the 
fifteen  chapels,  splendid  presence-chambers  where  the  dead 
keep  sculptured  state ;  we  looked,  as  we  were  bidden,  on  the 
worm-eaten  treasure-chest  of  the  Cid,  on  the  clock  whose 
life-sized  tenant,  Papa-Moscas,  used  to  scream  the  hours  to 
the  embarrassment  of  long-winded  pulpiteers,  on  the  cathe- 


1 6  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

dral's  crown  of  fretted  spires  whose  marvellous  tracery  was 
chiselled  by  the  angels,  and  on  the  "  Most  Holy  Christ  of 
Burgos,"  the  crucified  image  that  bleeds  every  Friday. 

Fulfilled  with  amazement,  we  searched  our  way  back  to  the 
hotel  through  the  sleety  rain,  ate  a  shivering  luncheon  at  the 
"  mesa  redonda"  that  "  round  table "  which  is  never  round, 
and  agreed  to  postpone  our  anticipated  visits  to  the  haunts 
of  the  Cid  until  a  less  inclement  season.  For  of  course  we 
should  come  back  to  Burgos.  The  proud  old  city  seemed  to 
fill  all  the  horizon  of  thought.  How  had  we  lived  so  long 
without  it  ?  That  the  stormy  afternoon  was  not  favorable 
to  exploration  mattered  little.  We  peeped  down  from  our 
balconies  into  the  ancient  streets,  half  expecting  the  exiled 
Cid  to  come  spurring  up,  seeking  the  welcome  which  we,  like 
all  the  craven  folk  of  Burgos,  must  refuse  him. 

"  With  sixty  lances  in  his  train  my  Cid  rode  up  the  town, 
The  burghers  and  their  dames  from  all  the  windows  looking  down  ; 
And  there  were  tears  in  every  eye,  and  on  each  lip  one  word  : 
'  A  worthy  vassal  —  would  to  God  he  served  a  worthy  lord  ! ' 
Fain  would  they  shelter  him,  but  none  durst  yield  to  his  desire. 
Great  was  the  fear  through  Burgos  town  of  King  Alphonso's  ire. 
Sealed  with  his  royal  seal  hath  come  his  letter  to  forbid 
All  men  to  offer  harborage  or  succor  to  my  Cid. 
And  he  that  dared  to  disobey,  well  did  he  know  the  cost  — 
His  goods,  his  eyes,  stood  forfeited,  his  soul  and  body  lost. 
A  hard  and  grievous  word  was  that  to  men  of  Christian  race  ; 
And  since  they  might  not  greet  my  Cid,  they  hid  them  from  his 
face." 

Meanwhile  the  streets  were  a  living  picture-book.  Muffled 
cavaliers,  with  cloaks  drawn  up  and  hats  drawn  down  till 


A  Continuous  Carnival  17 

only  the  dance  of  coal-black  eyes,  full  of  fire  and  fun,  was 
visible  between,  saluted  our  balcony  with  Carnival  imperti- 
nence. Beggars  of  both  sexes,  equally  wound  about  with 
tattered  shawls,  reached  up  expectant  hands  as  if  we  were 
made  of  Spanish  pennies.  A  funeral  procession  passed,  with 
the  pale  light  of  tapers,  the  chanting  of  priests,  with  purple- 
draped  coffin,  and  mourners  trooping  on  foot  —  men  only, 
for  in  Spain  women  never  accompany  their  dead  either  to 
church  or  grave.  A  troop  of  infantry,  whose  dapper  costume 
outwent  itself  in  the  last  touch  of  bright  green  gloves, 
dazzled  by,  and  then  came  a  miscellany  of  maskers.  It 
was  rather  a  rag-tag  show,  take  it  all  in  all  —  red  devils 
with  horns,  friars  extremely  fat,  caricatures  of  English  tourists 
with  tall  hats  and  perky  blue  eye-glasses,  giants,  dwarfs,  tum- 
blers, and  even  a  sorry  Cid  mounted  on  a  sorrier  Bavieca. 
But  the  climax  of  excitement  was  reached  when  a  novel  bull- 
fight wheeled  into  view.  It  was  a  stuffed  calf  this  time,  set 
on  wheels  and  propelled  by  a  merry  fellow  of  the  tribe  of 
Joseph,  if  one  might  judge  by  his  multi-colored  attire.  With 
white  hood,  black  mask,  blue  domino,  garnet  arms,  and  yellow 
legs,  he  was  as  cheery  as  a  bit  of  rainbow  out  of  that  sombre 
sky.  All  the  people  in  sight  hastened  to  flock  about  him, 
policemen  left  their  beats,  and  servant  maids  their  doorways, 
an  itinerant  band  of  gypsy  girls  ceased  clashing  their  tambou- 
rines, the  blind  beggar  opened  his  eyes,  and  the  small  boys 
were  in  ecstasies.  For  over  an  hour  the  populace  played 
with  that  mimic  bull  in  this  one  spot  under  our  windows, 
good-humored  cabal/eras  lending  their  scarfs  and  cloaks  to 
delighted  urchins,  who  would  thrust  these  stimulating  objects 
into  the  calf's  bland  face  and  then  run  for  their  lives,  while  the 


1 8  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

motley  Mask  trundled  his  precious  image  in  hot  pursuit  behind 
them.  We  were  reminded  of  the  scene  months  after  by  an 
old  painting  in  the  Escorial,  depicting  an  almost  identical 
performance.  Spain  is  not  a  land  of  change. 

But  that  teeth-chattering  cold,  "unfrio  de  todos  los  demonios" 
eased  our  farewells  to  Burgos,  and  night  found  us  dividing  the 
privileges  of  a  second-class  carriage  with  two  black-bearded 
Castilians,  who  slept  foot  to  foot  along  the  leather-cushioned 
seat  on  the  one  side,  while  we  copied  their  example  on  the 
other.  I  started  from  my  first  doze  at  some  hubbub  of  arrival 
to  ask  drowsily,  "  Is  this  Madrid  ? "  "  Be  at  peace,  senora !  " 
cooed  one  of  these  sable-headed  neighbors,  in  that  tone  of 
humorous  indulgence  characteristic  of  the  dons  when  address- 
ing women  and  children.  "  It  is  twelve  hours  yet  to  Madrid. 
Slumber  on  with  tranquil  heart."  So  we  lay  like  war- 
riors taking  our  rest,  with  our  travelling  rugs,  in  lieu  of  mar- 
tial cloaks,  about  us,  until  the  east  began  to  glow  with 
rose  and  fire,  revealing  a  bleak  extent  of  treeless,  tawny 
steppe. 

We  had  only  a  few  days  to  give  to  "  the  crowned  city  " 
then,  but  those  sufficed  for  business,  for  a  first  acquaintance 
with  the  Puerto  del  Sol  and  its  radiating  avenues,  a  first  joy  in 
the  peerless  Museo  del  Prado,  and  a  brilliant  glimpse  of  Carnival. 
We  found  the  great  drive  of  the  Prado,  on  Ash  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  reserved  for  carriages  and  maskers.  Stages 
were  erected  along  one  side  of  the  way,  and  on  the  other  the 
park  was  closely  set  with  chairs.  Stages  and  chairs  were 
filled  with  a  well-clad,  joyous  multitude,  diverted  awhile  from 
their  pretty  labors  of  shooting  roses  and  showering  confetti  by 
the  fascinating  panorama  before  their  eyes.  The  privileged 


A  Continuous  Carnival  19 

landaus  that  held  the  middle  of  the  road  were  laden  with  the 
loveliest  women  of  Castile.  Carriages,  horses,  and  coachmen 
were  all  adorned,  but  these  showy  equipages  only  served  as 
setting  to  the  high-bred  beauty  of  the  occupants.  The  cream 
of  Madrid  society  was  there.  The  adults  were  elegantly 
dressed,  but  not  as  masqueraders.  The  children  in  the  car- 
riages, however,  were  often  costumed  in  the  picturesque 
habits  of  the  provinces  —  the  scarlet  cap  and  striped  shawl  of 
the  Catalan  peasant,  the  open  velvet  waistcoat,  puffed  trou- 
sers, and  blue  or  red  sash  of  the  Valencian,  the  gayly  em- 
broidered mantle  of  the  Andalusian  mountaineer,  the  cocked 
hat  and  tasselled  jacket  of  the  gypsy.  Moors,  flower  girls, 
fairies,  French  lords  and  ladies  of  the  old  regime,  even  court 
fools  with  cap  and  bells,  were  brightly  imaged  by  these  little 
people,  to  whom  the  maskers  on  foot  seemed  to  have  left  the 
monopoly  of  beauty.  The  figures  darting  among  the  landaus, 
in  and  out  of  which  they  leaped  with  confident  impudence, 
were  almost  invariably  grotesques  —  smirking  fishwives,  star- 
ing chimney-sweeps,  pucker-mouthed  babies,  and  scarecrows 
of  every  variety.  Political  satires  are  sternly  forbidden,  and 
among  the  few  national  burlesques,  we  saw  nowhere  any 
representation  of  Uncle  Sam.  He  was  hardly  a  subject  of 
the  King  of  Nonsense  then. 

Squeaking  and  gibbering,  the  maskers,  unrebuked,  took  all 
manner  of  saucy  liberties.  A  stately  old  gentleman  rose  from 
his  cushion  in  a  crested  carriage  to  observe  how  gallantly  a 
bevy  of  ladies  were  beating  off  with  a  hail  of  confetti  and  bon- 
bons an  imploring  cavalier  who  ran  by  their  wheels,  and  when 
he  would  have  resumed  his  seat  he  found  himself  dandled  on 
the  knees  of  a  grinning  Chinaman.  Sometimes  a  swarm  of 


2O  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

maskers  would  beset  a  favorite  carriage,  climbing  up  beside 
the  coachman  and  snatching  his  reins,  standing  on  the  steps 
and  throwing  kisses,  lying  along  the  back  and  twitting  the 
proudest  beauty  in  the  ear  or  making  love  to  the  haughtiest. 
This  all-licensed  masker,  with  his  monstrous  disguise  and 
affected  squeal,  may  be  a  duke  or  a  doorkeeper.  Carnival  is 
democracy. 

Meanwhile  the  inevitable  small  boy,  whose  Spanish  variety 
is  exceptionally  light  of  heart  and  heels,  gets  his  own  fun  out 
of  the  occasion  by  whisking  under  the  ropes  into  this  reserved 
avenue  and  dodging  hither  and  thither  among  the  vehicles,  to 
the  fury  of  the  mounted  police,  whose  duty  it  is  to  keep  the 
public  out.  One  resplendent  rider  devoted  his  full  energies 
for  nearly  an  hour  to  the  unavailing  chase  of  a  nimble  little 
rogue  who  risked  ten  of  his  nine  lives  under  coaches  and  in 
front  of  horses'  hoofs,  but  always  turned  up  laughing  with  a 
finger  at  the  nose. 

Yet  this  jocund  day  did  not  set  without  its  tragedy.  A 
hot-tempered  Madrileno,  abroad  with  his  wife,  resented  the 
attentions  paid  her  by  one  of  the  maskers  and  shot  him 
down.  The  mortally  wounded  man  was  found  to  be  a  phy- 
sician of  high  repute.  This  was  not  the  only  misadventure 
of  the  afternoon,  a  lady  losing  one  eye  by  the  blow  of  a  flying 
sugar-plum. 

Our  next  night  journey  was  less  fortunate  than  our  first, 
though  it  should  be  remembered  that  our  discomforts  were 
partly  due  to  our  persistency  in  travelling  second-class.  The 
carriage  had  its  full  complement  of  passengers,  and  each  of 
our  eight  companions  brought  with  him  an  unlawful  excess  of 
small  luggage.  Valises,  boxes,  bundles,  sacks,  cans,  canes, 


A  Continuous  Carnival  11 

umbrellas  wedged  us  in  on  every  side,  while  our  own  accu- 
mulation of  grips,  shawl-straps,  hold-alls,  and  sketching  kit 
denied  us  even  the  ,relief  of  indignation.  We  all  sat  bolt  up- 
right the  night  through  in  an  atmosphere  that  sickens  mem- 
ory. Not  a  chink  of  window  air  would  those  sensitive 
caballeros  endure,  while  the  smoke  of  their  ever  puffing  ciga- 
rettes clouded  the  compartment  with  an  uncanny  haze  that 
grew  heavier  hour  by  hour.  Conversation,  which  seldom 
flagged,  became  a  violent  chorus  at  those  intervals  when  the 
conductor  burst  in  for  another  chapter  of  his  serial  wrangle 
with  a  fiery  gentleman  who  refused  to  pay  full  fare.  Every 
don  in  the  carriage,  even  to  the  chubby  priest  nodding  in  the 
coziest  corner,  had  an  unalterable  conviction  as  to  the  rights 
and  wrongs  of  that  question,  and  men  we  had  supposed,  from 
their  swaying  and  snoring,  fast  asleep,  would  leap  to  their 
feet  when  the  conductor  entered,  fling  out  their  hands  in 
vehement  gestures,  and  dash  into  the  midst  of  the  vociferous 
dispute.  Lazy  Spaniards,  indeed  !  We  began  to  wish  that 
the  Peninsula  would  cultivate  repose  of  manner.  Our  tem- 
pers were  sorely  shaken,  and  when,  in  the  pale  chill  of  dawn, 
we  arrived  at  Cordova,  sleepless,  nauseated,  and  out  of  love 
with  humanity,  we  had  every  prospect  of  passing  a  wretched 
forenoon. 

Thus  it  is  I  am  inclined  to  believe  we  lay  down  under  an 
orange  tree  and  dreamed  a  dream  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 
Or  perhaps  it  was  only  another  freak  of  the  Carnival.  At  all 
events,  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  the  world  was  changed.  Cordova  ! 
A  midsummer  heat,  a  land  of  vineyards  and  olive  groves, 
palms  and  aloes,  a  white,  unearthly  city,  with  narrow,  silent, 
deathlike  streets,  peopled  only  by  drowsy  beggars  and  by  glid- 


11  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

ing  maskers  that  seemed  more  real  than  this  Oriental  picture 
in  which  they  moved,  high  walls  with  grated,  harem-like 
windows,  and  an  occasional  glimpse,  through  some  arched 
doorway,  into  a  marble-floored,  rose-waving,  fountain-playing 
patio,  enchanted  and  mysterious,  a  dream  within  a  dream. 
Cordova  is  more  than  haunted.  It  is  itself  a  ghost.  The 
court  of  the  Spanish  caliphs,  at  once  the  Mecca  and  the 
Athens  of  the  West,  a  holy  city  which  counted  its  baths 
and  mosques  by  hundreds,  a  seat  of  learning  whose  universi- 
ties were  renowned  for  mathematics  and  philosophy,  chemrstry, 
astronomy,  and  medicine,  and  within  whose  libraries  were 
treasured  manuscripts  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  a  star  of  art 
and  poetry,  it  ever  reproaches,  by  this  lovely,  empty  shadow, 
the  Christian  barbarism  that  spurned  away  the  Moors. 

The  insulted  Mosque  of  Cordova  well-nigh  makes  Moham- 
medans of  us  all.  Entering  by  the  studded  Door  of  Pardon 
into  the  spacious  Court  of  Oranges,  with  its  ancient  trees  and 
sparkling  quintette  of  fountains,  one  passes  onward  under  the 
Arch  of  Blessings  into  a  marble  forest  of  slender,  sculptured 
pillars.  The  wide  world,  from  Carthage  to  Damascus,  from 
Jerusalem  to  Ephesus  and  Rome,  was  searched  for  the  choicest 
shafts  of  jasper,  breccia,  alabaster,  porphyry,  until  one  thousand 
four  hundred  precious  columns  bore  the  glory  of  rose-red 
arches  and  wonder-roof  of  gilded  and  enamelled  cedar.  More 
than  seven  thousand  hanging  lamps  of  bronze,  filled  with  per- 
fumed oil,  flashed  out  the  mosaic  tints,  —  golds,  greens,  violets, 
vermilions,  —  of  ceiling,  walls,  and  pavement.  All  this  shin- 
ing sanctity  culminated  in  the  Mihrab,  or  Prayer-Niche,  an 
octagonal  recess  whose  shell-shaped  ceiling  is  hollowed  from 
a  single  block  of  pure  white  marble.  This  Holy  of  Holies 


AN  ARAB  GATEWAY  IN  BURGOS 


A  Continuous  Carnival  23 

held  the  Koran,  bound  in  gold  and  pearls,  around  which  the 
Faithful  were  wont  to  make  seven  turns  upon  their  knees,  an 
act  of  devotion  tha,t  has  left  indisputable  grooves  in  the  marble 
of  the  pavement. 

The  Christian  conquerors  splashed  whitewash  over  the 
exquisite  ceiling,  hewed  down  the  pillars  of  the  outer  aisles  to 
give  space  for  a  fringe  of  garish  chapels,  and  even  chopped 
away  threescore  glistening  columns  in  the  centre  to  make 
room  for  an  incongruous  Renaissance  choir,  with  an  altar  of 
silver  gilt  and  a  big  pink  retablo.  We  could  have  wandered 
for  endless  hours  among  the  strange  half-lights  and  colored 
shadows  of  that  petrified  faith  of  Islam,  marvelling  on  the 
processes  of  time.  It  is  claimed  that  the  Arab  mosque  rose 
on  the  site  of  a  Roman  temple,  whence  Mahomet  drove  forth 
Janus,  to  be  in  his  own  turn  expelled  by  Christ.  The  race  of 
those  who  bowed  themselves  in  this  gleaming  labyrinth  has 
fared  ill  at  Spanish  hands.  Even  now  a  Moor,  however  cour- 
teous and  cultured,  is  refused  admission  to  certain  Castilian 
churches,  as  the  Escorial. 

How  did  we  ever  part  from  Cordova,  from  her  resplendent, 
desecrated  mosque,  her  stone  lanes  of  streets,  her  hinted 
patios,  the  Moorish  mills  and  Roman  bridge  of  her  yellow 
Guadalquivir  ?  It  must  all  have  been  a  morning  dream,  for 
the  early  afternoon  saw  us  tucked  away  in  another  second- 
class  carriage  speeding  toward  Granada. 

We  were  in  beautiful  Andalusia,  la  tlerra  de  Maria  San- 
tisima.  The  green  slopes  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  planted  to 
the  top  with  olive  groves,  watched  the  beginnings  of  our 
journey,  and  banks  of  strange,  sweet  flowers,  with  glimpses 
of  Moorish  minarets  and  groups  of  dark-faced,  bright-sashed 


24  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

peasants,  looking  as  if  they  had  just  stepped  down  from  an 
artist's  easel,  beguiled  us  of  all  physical  discomforts  save  heat 
and  thirst.  When  the  sun  was  at  its  sorest,  the  train  drew 
up  at  a  tumble-down  station,  and  we  looked  eagerly  for  the 
customary  water  seller,  with  his  cry  of  "  Water !  Fresh 
water !  Water  cooler  than  snow !  "  But  it  was  too  warm 
for  this  worthy  to  venture  out,  and  our  hopes  fastened  on  a 
picturesque  old  merchant  seated  in  a  shaft  of  cypress  shade 
beside  a  heap  of  golden  oranges.  Those  juicy  globes  were  a 
sight  to  madden  all  the  parched  mouths  in  the  train,  and 
imploring  voices  hailed  the  proprietor  from  window  after 
window.  But  our  venerable  hidalgo  smoked  his  cigarette 
in  tranquil  ease,  disdaining  the  vulgarities  of  barter.  At  the 
very  last  moment  we  persuaded  a  ragged  boy  in  the  throng 
of  bystanders  to  fetch  us  a  hatful  of  the  fruit.  Then  the 
peasant  languidly  arose,  followed  the  lad  to  our  window, 
named  an  infinitesimal  price,  and  received  his  coin  with  the 
bow  of  a  grandee.  He  was  no  hustler  in  business,  this 
Andalusian  patriarch,  but  his  dignity  was  epic  and  his  oranges 
were  nectar. 

We  shall  never  know  whether  or  not  we  had  an  adventure 
that  evening.  A  wild-eyed  tatterdemalion  swung  himself 
suddenly  into  our  compartment  and  demanded  our  tickets, 
but  as  all  the  Andalusians  looked  to  our  unaccustomed  view 
like  brigands,  we  did  not  discriminate  against  this  abrupt 
individual,  but  yielded  up  our  strips  of  pasteboard  without 
demur.  A  swarthy  young  Moor  of  Tangier,  the  only  other 
occupant  of  the  carriage,  sharply  refused  to  surrender  his  own 
until  the  intruder  should  produce  a  conductor's  badge,  where- 
upon the  stranger  swore  in  gypsy,  or  "  words  to  that  effect," 


A  Continuous  Carnival  25 

wrenched  open  the  door  and  fled,  like  Judas,  into  the  outer 
dark.  The  Moor  excitedly  declared  to  us  that  our  tickets 
would  be  called  for  at  the  station  in  Granada,  that  we  should 
have  to  pay  their  price  to  the  gate-keeper,  and  that  our 
irregular  collector,  hiding  somewhere  along  the  train,  would 
be  admitted  by  that  corrupt  official  to  a  share  in  the  spoils. 
Moved  by  our  dismay,  this  son  of  the  desert  thrust  his  head 
through  the  window  at  the  next  stop,  and  roared  so  lustily 
for  the  conductor  and  the  civil  guard  that,  in  a  twinkling,  the 
robber,  if  he  was  a  robber,  popped  up  in  the  doorway  again, 
like  a  Jack-in-the-box,  and  rudely  flung  us  back  the  tickets. 
Thereupon  our  benefactor,  if  he  was  a  benefactor,  solemnly 
charged  us  never,  on  the  Granada  road,  to  give  up  anything 
to  anybody  who  wore  no  gilt  on  his  cap. 

More  and  more  the  purple  mountains  were  folding  us 
about,  until  at  last  we  arrived  at  Granada,  too  tired  for  a 
thrill.  Mr.  Gulick's  constant  care,  which  had  secured  us 
harborage  in  Madrid,  had  provided  welcome  here.  Content 
in  mere  well-being,  it  was  not  until  the  following  afternoon 
that  tourist  enterprise  revived  within  us.  Then  we  somewhat 
recklessly  wandered  down  from  the  Alhambra  hill  into  the 
heart  of  the  People's  Carnival,  a  second  Sunday  of  festival 
given  over  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  lower  classes.  The 
grotesque  costumes  were  coarser  than  ever  and  the  fun  was 
rougher.  The  maskers  cracked  whips  at  the  other  prome- 
naders,  blew  horns,  shook  rattles,  and  struck  about  them 
with  painted  bladders,  but  the  balconies  were  bright  with  the 
bewitching  looks  of  Andalusian  beauties,  each  vying  with  the 
rest  in  throwing  the  many-colored  serpentinas^  curly  lengths 
of  paper  that  crisp  themselves  in  gaudy  fetters  about  their 


26  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

captives.  A  single  business  house  in  Granada  claimed  to 
have  sold  over  a  million  of  these,  representing  a  value  of 
some  ten  thousand  dollars,  during  Carnival  week.  Southern 
Spain  was  grumbling  bitterly  against  the  Government  and 
the  war  taxes,  and  in  Seville,  where  a  tax  is  put  on  masks, 
the  Carnival  had  been  given  up  this  year  as  last;  but  Granada 
would  not  be  cheated  of  her  frolic.  Our  study  of  this  closing 
phase  of  the  Carnival  was  cut  short  by  the  recollection  that  it 
was,  above  all,  the  fiesta  of  pickpockets.  Finding  ourselves, 
on  the  superb  Paseo  del  Salon,  in  the  midst  of  a  hooting, 
jostling,  half-gypsy  mob,  rained  upon  with  confetti,  called 
upon  in  broken  French  and  English,  pressed  upon  by  boys 
and  beggars,  and  happening  to  catch  sight  of  the  stately 
bronze  statue  of  Columbus  which  the  women  of  Granada 
had  recently  stoned  because,  by  discovering  America,  he 
brought  all  the  Cuban  troubles  upon  Spain,  we  took  the  hint 
of  the  wise  navigator's  eye  and  decided  that  we  two  stray 
Yankees  might  be  as  well  off  somewhere  else.  "  Feet,  why 
do  I  love  you  ?  "  say  the  Spaniards  ;  and  so  said  we,  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word. 


Ill 


WITHIN    THE    ALHAMBRA 

"The  Sierra  Nevada,   an  enormous  dove  which  shelters  under  its  most    spotless 
wings  Saracen  Granada."  — ALARCON  :   Los  Sets  Velos. 

OUR  surprises  were  by  no  means  over.  We  had 
come  to  Granada  to  bask  in  the  quintessence  of 
earthly  sunshine,  and  we  found  bleak  rains,  dark 
skies,  and  influenza.  The  Moorish  palace  was  indeed  as 
wonderful  as  our  lifelong  dream  of  it,  —  arched  and  columned 
halls  of  exquisite  fretwork,  walls  of  arabesque  where  flushes 
and  glints  of  color  linger  yet,  ceilings  crusted  with  stalactite 
figures  of  tapering  caprice,  but  all  too  chill,  even  if  the  guides 
would  cease  from  troubling,  for  tarrying  revery.  We  tarried, 
nevertheless,  were  enraptured,  and  caught  cold.  We  were 
dwelling  in  the  village  on  the  Alhambra  hill,  within  the  circuit 
of  the  ruined  fortress,  in  a  villa  kept  by  descendants  of  the 
Moors,  but  the  insolent  grippe  microbe  respected  neither 
ancient  blood  nor  republican.  During  the  month  of  our 
residence,  every  member  of  the  household  was  brought  low  in 
turn,  and  there  were  days  when  even  the  stubborn  Yankees 
retreated  to  their  pillows,  lulled  by  the  howling  of  as  wild 
March  winds  as  ever  whirled  the  grasshopper  vane  on  Faneuil 
Hall.  From  beyond  the  partition  sounded  the  groans  of  our 
fever-smitten  hostess,  and  from  the  kitchen  below  arose  the 

27 


28  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

noise  of  battle  between  our  sturdy  host  and  the  rebel  spoons 
and  sauce-pans.  If  we  could  not  always  swallow  his  bold 
experiments  in  gruel  and  porridge,  we  could  always  enjoy  the 
roars  of  laughter  with  which  that  merry  silversmith  plied  his 
unaccustomed  labors.  It  is  said  that  there  are  only  three 
months  of  the  year  when  Granada  is  fit  to  live  in,  and  cer- 
tainly February  and  March  are  not  of  these.  But  our  delighted 
spirits  had  no  thought  of  surrender  to  our  discomfited  bodies. 
We  would  not  go  away.  It  is  better  to  ache  in  beautiful 
Granada  than  to  be  at  ease  elsewhere. 

At  the  first  peep  of  convalescence,  we  fled  out  of  doors  in 
search  of  a  sunbeam  and  discovered,  again  to  our  surprise, 
this  immemorial  Alhambra  hill  as  young  as  springtime.  The 
famous  fragments  of  towers,  with  their  dim  legends  of  enchant- 
ment, all  those  tumbled  masses  of  time-worn,  saffron-lichened 
masonry,  are  tragically  old,  yet  the  tender  petals  of  peach  blos- 
soms, drifting  through  the  fragrant  air,  lay  pink  as  baby  touches 
against  those  hoary  piles.  We  rested  beside  many  an  ancient 
ruin  overclambered  by  red  rosebuds  or  by  branches  laden 
with  the  fresh  gold  of  oranges,  where  thrushes  practised  songs 
of  welcome  for  the  nightingales.  We  were  too  early  for 
these  sweetest  minstrels  of  the  Alhambra,  who,  like  the  Moors 
of  long  ago,  were  yearning  on  the  edge  of  Africa  for  the  Vega 
of  Granada. 

One  expects,  shut  in  by  the  crumbling  walls  of  the  Alham- 
bra, in  shadow  of  the  ruddy  towers,  in  sound  of  the  Moslem 
fountains,  to  live  with  dreams  and  visions  for  one's  company, 
to  have  no  associates  less  dignified  than  the  moonlight  caval- 
cades of  shadowy  Arabian  warriors,  whom  the  mountain 
caverns  cast  forth  at  stated  seasons  to  troop  once  more  in 


Within  the  Alhambra  29 

their  remembered  ways,  or  lustrous-eyed,  lute-playing  sultanas, 
or,  at  least,  a  crook-backed,  snow-bearded  magician,  with  a 
wallet  full  of  talismans,  and  footsteps  that  clink  like  the  gold 
of  buried  treasure.  But  here  again  the  eternal  fact  of  youth 
in  the  world  disconcerts  all  venerable  calculations.  The 
Alhambra  dances  and  laughs  with  children  —  ragamuffins, 
most  of  them,  but  none  the  less  radiant  with  the  precious  joy 
of  the  morning. 

They  are  gentle  little  people,  too.  It  became  well  known 
on  the  hill  that  we  were  Americans,  yet  not  a  pebble  or  rude 
word  followed  us  from  the  groups  of  unkempt  boys  among 
whom  we  daily  passed.  Once  a  mimic  regiment,  with  a 
deafening  variety  of  unmusical  instruments  and  a  genuine 
Spanish  flag,  charged  on  me  roguishly  and  drew  up  in  battle 
square  about  their  prisoner,  but  it  was  only  to  troll  the  staple 
song  of  Spanish  adolescence :  "  I  want  to  be  a  soldier,"  and 
when  I  had  munificently  rewarded  the  captain  with  a  copper, 
the  youngsters  doffed  their  varied  headgear,  dipped  their  banner 
in  martial  salute,  and  contentedly  re-formed  their  ranks.  It 
was  seldom  that  we  gave  money,  but  we  usually  carried  dukes 
for  the  little  ones,  who,  even  the  dirtiest,  have  their  own  pretty 
standard  of  manners. 

Some  half-dozen  pequenttos,  not  one  of  whom  was  clearly 
out  of  petticoats,  were  scampering  off  one  day,  for  instance, 
their  thanks  duly  spoken,  and  their  bits  of  candy  just  between 
hand  and  mouth,  when  they  turned  with  one  accord,  as  if 
suddenly  aware  of  an  abruptness  in  their  leave-taking,  and 
trotted  back  to  bow  them  low,  their  tatters  of  cap  sweeping 
the  ground,  and  lisp  with  all  Spanish  gravity,  "  Good  after- 
noon, senora."  One  chubby  hidalgo  tipped  over  with  the 


30  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

profundity  of  his  obeisance,  but  the  others  righted  him  so 
solemnly  that  the  dignity  of  the  ceremonial  was  unimpaired. 

The  habit  of  begging,  that  plague  of  tourist  resorts,  is  an 
incessant  nuisance  on  the  Alhambra  hill.  Half-grown  girls 
and  young  women  were  the  most  shameless  and  persistent  of 
our  tormentors.  Age  can  be  discouraged,  and  babyhood 
diverted,  while  the  Spanish  boy,  if  his  importunities  are  met 
by  smile  and  jest,  will  break  into  a  laugh  in  the  midst  of  his 
most  pathetic  appeals  and  let  you  off  till  next  time. 

"  A  little  money  for  our  Blessed  Lady's  sake,  senora.  I 
am  starving." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  cigarette  ?  " 

"And  that  I  would." 

"Then  you  are  not  starving,  little  brother.  Run  away. 
I  have  no  cigarettes." 

"  But  you  have  money  for  me,  senora." 

"  No,  nor  enough  for  myself,  not  enough  to  buy  one  tile 
of  the  Alhambra." 

"  Then  may  God  take  care  of  you  !  " 

"  And  of  you  !  " 

But  the  wild-haired,  jet-eyed  gypsy  girl  from  the  Albaicin 
is  impervious  to  mirth  and  untouched  by  courtesy.  She 
would  not  do  us  the  honor  of  believing  our  word,  even  when 
we  were  telling  the  truth. 

"  Five  centimos  to  buy  me  a  scarlet  ribbon  !    Five  centimosf" 

"  Not  to-day,  excuse  me.     I  have  no  change." 

"  Hoh  !  You  have  change  enough.  Look  in  your  little 
brown  bag  and  see." 

"  I  have  no  change." 

"  Then  give  me  a  peseta.     Come,  now,  a  whole  peseta  !  " 


Within  the  Alhambra  31 

"  But  why  should  I  give  you  a  peseta  ?  " 

The  girl  stares  like  an  angry  hawk. 

"  But  why  shouldn't  you  ?  "  Darting  away,  she  hustles 
together  a  group  of  toddlers,  hardly  able  to  lisp,  and  drives 
them  on  to  the  attack. 

"  Beg,  Isabelita  !  Beg  of  the  lady,  little  Conception  !  Beg, 
Alfonsito  !  Beg,  beg,  beg  !  Beg  five  centimes,  ten  centimes  / 
Beg  a  peseta  for  us  all !  " 

And  out  pop  the  tiny  palms,  and  the  babble  of  baby  voices 
makes  a  pleading  music  in  the  air.  It  is  for  such  as  these 
that  the  little  brown  bag  has  learned  to  carry  dulces. 

Before  the  month  was  over  we  had,  in  a  slow,  grippe- 
chastened  fashion,  "  done  our  Baedeker."  We  had  our 
favorite  courts  and  corridors  in  the  magical  maze  of  the 
Moorish  palace ;  we  knew  the  gardens  and  fountains  of  the 
Genera/ife,  even  to  that  many-centuried  cypress  beneath  whose 
shade  the  Sultana  Zoraya  was  wont  to  meet  her  Abencerrage 
lover ;  our  fortunes  had  been  told  in  the  gypsy  caves  of  the 
Albaicin ;  we  had  visited  the  stately  Renaissance  cathedral 
where,  in  a  dim  vault,  the  "  Catholic  Kings,"  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  take  their  royal  rest ;  we  had  made  a  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  paintings  of  the  fire-tempered  Granadine, 
Alonso  Cano,  and  paid  our  dubious  respects  to  the  convent 
of  Cartuja,  with  its  over-gorgeous  ornament  and  its  horrible 
pictures  of  Spanish  martyrdoms  inflicted  by  that  "  devil's 
bride,"  Elizabeth  of  England.  We  had  explored  the  parks 
and  streets  of  the  strange  old  city,  where  we  possessed, 
according  to  the  terms  of  Spanish  hospitality,  several  houses ; 
but  better  than  the  clamorous  town  we  liked  our  own  wall- 
girdled  height,  with  its  songful  wood  of  English  elms,  planted 


32  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

by  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  its  ever  murmuring  runlets  of 
clear  water,  its  jessamines  and  myrtles,  its  Arabian  Nights 
of  mosque  and  tower,  and  its  far  outlook  over  what  is  perhaps 
the  most  entrancing  prospect  any  hill  of  earth  can  show. 
The  sunset  often  found  us  leaning  over  the  ivied  wall  beneath 
the  Torre  de  la  Vela,  that  bell-tower  where  the  first  cross  was 
raised  after  the  Christian  conquest,  gazing  forth  from  our 
trellised  garden-nook  on  a  vast  panorama  of  gray  city  all 
quaintly  set  with  arch  and  cupola,  of  sweeping  plain  with 
wealth  of  olive  groves,  vineyards,  orange  orchards,  pome- 
granates, aloes,  and  cypresses,  bounded  by  glistening  ranks  of 
snow-cloaked  mountains.  From  the  other  side  of  the  Al- 
hambra  plateau,  the  fall  is  sheer  to  the  silver  line  of  the 
Darro.  Across  the  river  rises  the  slope  of  the  Albaici'n,  once 
the  chosen  residence  of  Moorish  aristocracy,  but  now  dotted 
over,  amid  the  thickets  of  cactus  and  prickly  pear,  with  white- 
washed entrances  to  gypsy  caves.  Beyond  all  shine  the 
resplendent  summits  of  the  great  Sierras. 

Yet  it  is  strange  how  homely  are  many  of  the  memories 
that  spring  to  life  in  me  at  the  name  of  the  Alhambra,  —  deco- 
rous donkeys,  laden  with  water-jars,  trooping  up  the  narrow 
footpath  to  the  old  Fountain  of  Tears,  herds  of  goats  cling- 
ing like  flies  to  the  upright  precipice,  a  lurking  peasant  dart- 
ing out  on  his  wife  as  she  passes  with  a  day's  earnings  hidden 
in  her  stocking  and  holding  her  close,  with  laughter  and  coax- 
ing, while  he  persistently  searches  her  clothing  until  he  finds 
and  appropriates  that  copper  hoard,  and  our  own  cheery  little 
house-drudge  washing  our  linen  in  a  wayside  rivulet  and  sing- 
ing like  a  bird  as  she  rubs  and  pounds  an  unfortunate  hand- 
kerchief between  two  haphazard  stones  :  — 


Within  the  Alhambra  33 

*'  I  like  to  live  in  Granada, 

It  pleases  me  so  well 
When  I  am  falling  asleep  at  night 
'To  hear  the  Vela  bell." 

There  is  the  proud  young  mother,  too,  whom  we  came  upon 
by  chance  over  behind  the  Tower  of  the  Princesses,  where 
her  pot  of  puchero  was  bubbling  above  a  miniature  bonfire,  while 
the  velvet-eyed  baby  boy  sucked  his  thumb  in  joyous  expecta- 
tion. She  often  made  us  welcome,  after  that,  to  her  home, 
—  a  dingy  stone  kitchen  and  bedroom,  unfurnished  save  for 
pallet,  a  few  cooking-utensils,  a  chest  or  two,  and,  fastened  to 
the  wall,  a  gaudy  print  of  La  Virgen  de  las  Angustias,  the  ven- 
erated Patrona  of  Granada.  But  this  wretched  abode,  the 
remains  of  what  may  once  have  been  a  palace,  opened  on  a 
lordly  pleasure-garden  with  walls  inlaid  with  patterns  of  rain- 
bow tiles,  whose  broken  edges  were  hidden  by  rose  bushes. 
There  were  pedestals  and  even  fragments  of  images  in  this 
wild  Eden,  jets  of  sparkling  water  and  walks  of  variegated 
marble.  In  the  course  of  the  month,  English  and  Spanish 
callers  climbed  the  hill  to  us  and  encompassed  us  with  kind- 
ness, but  we  still  maintained  our  incorrigible  taste  for  low 
society  and  used  to  hold  informal  receptions  on  sunny  benches 
for  all  the  tatterdemalions  within  sight.  Swarthy  boys, 
wearied  with  much  loafing,  would  thriftily  lay  aside  their 
cigarettes  to  favor  us  with  conversation,  asking  many  ques- 
tions about  America,  for  whose  recent  action  they  gallantly 
declined  to  hold  us  responsible.  "  It  was  not  the  ladies  that 
made  the  war,"  said  these  modern  cavaliers  of  the  Alhambra. 
Their  especial  spokesman  was  a  shambling  orphan  lad  of 
some  fifteen  summers,  with  shrewd  and  merry  eyes.  Noth- 
D 


34  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

ing  pleased  him  better  than  to  give  an  ornamental  hitch  to  the 
shabby,  bright-colored  scarf  about  his  thin,  brown  throat,  and 
proceed  to  expound  the  political  situation. 

"  You  admire  the  Alhambra  ?  I  suppose  you  have  no 
palaces  in  America  because  your  Government  is  a  republic. 
That  is  a  very  good  thing.  Our  Government  is  the  worst 
possible.  All  the  loss  falls  on  the  poor.  All  the  gain  goes  to 
the  rich.  But  there  are  few  rich  in  Spain.  America  is  the 
richest  country  of  all  the  world.  When  America  fought  us 
it  was  as  a  rich  man,  fed  and  clothed,  fighting  a  poor  man 
weak  from  famine.  And  the  rich  man  took  from  the  poor 
man  all  that  he  had.  Spain  has  nothing  left  —  nothing." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  Spain  has  the  Alhambra,  and  beau- 
tiful churches,  beautiful  pictures." 

"  Can  one  eat  churches  and  pictures,  my  lady  ?  " 

"  And  a  fertile  soil.  What  country  outblooms  Anda- 
lusia ?  " 

His  half-shod  foot  kicked  the  battle-trampled  earth  of  the 
immortal  hill  contemptuously. 

"  Soil !  Yes.  All  the  world  has  soil.  It  serves  to  be 
buried  in." 

This  budding  politician  graced  us  with  his  company  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  when  we  went  down  into  Granada  to  see 
a  religious  procession.  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes,  escorted  by  a 
distinguished  train  of  ecclesiastical  and  civic  dignitaries,  with 
pomp  of  many  shining  lights  and  sonorous  instruments,  with 
peal  of  church  bells  and  incongruous  popping  of  fireworks, 
passed  through  extended  ranks  of  candle-bearing  worshippers, 
along  thronged  streets,  where  every  balcony  was  hung  with 
the  national  red  and  yellow,  to  the  Church  of  Mary  Magda- 


Within  the  Alhambra  35 

lene.  There  the  sacred  guest  was  entertained  with  a  concert, 
and  thence  conducted,  with  the  same  processional  state,  amid 
the  same  reverent  salutations  of  the  multitude,  back  to  her 
own  niche.  Our  youthful  guide  showed  himself  so  devout 
on  this  occasion,  kneeling  whenever  the  image,  borne  aloft  in 
a  glory  of  flowers  and  tapers,  passed  us,  and  gazing  on  every 
feature  of  the  pageant  with  large-eyed  adoration,  that  we 
asked  him,  as  we  climbed  the  hill  again,  if  he  would  like  to 
be  a  priest.  But  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  There  are 
better  Christians  in  Spain  than  the  priests,"  he  answered. 

The  son  of  the  house,  Don  Pepe,  a  young  man  of  five  and 
twenty,  who  usually  attended  us  on  any  difficult  excursion, 
was  also  frankly  outspoken  in  his  disapproval  of  the  clergy. 
He  could  hardly  hold  his  countenance  in  passing  a  Franciscan 
friar.  "  There  walks  the  ruin  of  Spain,"  he  muttered  once, 
with  bitter  accent,  turning  to  scowl  after  the  bareheaded, 
brown-frocked  figure  so  common  in  Granada  streets.  We 
had,  indeed,  our  own  little  grudge  against  the  friars,  for  they 
were  the  only  men  of  the  city  who  forced  us  off  the  narrow 
sidewalks  out  into  the  rough  and  dirty  road.  All  other  Grana- 
dines,  from  dandies  to  gypsies,  yielded  us  the  strip  of  pave- 
ment with  ready  courtesy,  but  the  friars,  three  or  four  in 
Indian  file,  would  press  on  their  way  like  graven  images  and 
drive  us  to  take  refuge  among  the  donkeys. 

This  escort  of  ours,  formally  a  Catholic,  was  no  more  a 
lover  of  State  than  of  Church.  He  was  eager  to  get  to  work 
in  the  world  and,  finding  no  foothold,  charged  up  his  grievance 
against  the  Government.  He  was  firmly  persuaded  that 
Madrid  had  sold  the  Santiago  and  Manila  victories  to  Wash- 
ington for  sums  of  money  down,  —  deep  down  in  official 


36  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

pockets.  But  his  talk,  however  angry,  would  always  end  in 
throwing  out  the  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"But  what  use  in  revolutions?  Spain  is  tired  —  tired  of 
tumult,  tired  of  bloodshed,  tired  of  deceit  and  disappointment. 
A  new  government  would  only  mean  the  old  dogs  with  new 
collars.  We,  the  people,  are  always  the  bone  to  be  gnawed 
bare.  What  use  in  anything  ?  Let  it  go  as  God  wills." 

The  Silvela  and  Polavieja  ministry  came  in  during  our  stay 
at  Granada,  and  the  Liberal  and  Republican  chorus  against 
what  was  known  as  the  Reactionary  Government  swelled  loud. 
"  It  means  the  yoke  of  the  Jesuits,"  growled  our  burly  host. 
Our  Alhambra  dream  suffered  frequent  jars  from  these  ignoble 
confusions  of  to-day.  When  we  were  musing  comfortably 
on  the  melancholy  fortunes  of  Boabdil,  a  cheap  newspaper 
would  be  thrust  before  our  eyes  with  an  editorial  headed 
u  Boabdil  Sagasta."  It  is  always  best  to  do  what  one  must. 
Since  we  could  not  be  left  in  peace  to  the  imagination  of 
plumy  cavaliers,  stars  of  Moslem  and  Christian  chivalry,  who 
sowed  this  mount  so  thick  with  glorious  memories,  we  turned 
our  thoughts  to  the  poor  soldiers  from  Cuba,  especially  during 
the  week  throughout  which  they  paraded  the  cities  of  Spain  in 
rag-tag  companies  under  rude  flags  with  the  ruder  motto : 
"  Hungry  Repatriados"  Their  appearance  was  so  woful  that 
it  became  a  by-word.  A  child,  picking  up  from  a  gutter  one 
day  a  mud-stained,  dog-eared  notebook,  cried  gleefully,  "  It's 
a  repatriado"  There  was  no  glamour  here,  but  the  courage 
and  sacrifice,  the  love  and  anguish,  held  good. 

Granada  had  borne  her  share  in  Spain's  last  war  sorrow. 
So  many  of  her  sons  were  drafted  for  the  Antilles  that  her 
anger  against  America  waxed  hot.  A  few  months  before  our 


Within  the  Alhambra  37 

arrival  every  star-spangled  banner  that  could  be  hunted  out 
in  shop  or  residence  was  trampled  and  burned  in  the  public 
squares.  The  Washington  Irving  Hotel  hastened  to  take 
down  its  sign,  and  even  the  driver  of  its  omnibus  was  sternly 
warned>by  the  people  to  erase  those  offensive  American  names 
from  his  vehicle  on  pain  of  seeing  it  transformed  into  a  chariot 
of  fire.  A  shot,  possibly  accidental,  whistled  through  the 
office  of  the  English  consul,  who  was  given  to  understand,  in 
more  ways  than  one,  that  Spain  made  little  difference  between 
u  the  cloaked  enemy  "  and  the  foe  in  the  field.  Meanwhile, 
month  after  month,  the  recruits  were  marched  to  the  station, 
and  the  City  Fathers,  who  came  in  all  municipal  dignity  to 
bid  the  lads  godspeed,  were  so  overwhelmed  by  the  weeping 
of  the  women  that  they  forgot  the  cream  of  their  speeches. 

Among  the  new  tales  of  Spanish  valor  told  us  on  the 
Alhambra  hill  was  this  :  — 

When  lots  were  drawn  for  military  service,  one  blithe 
young  scapegrace  found  in  his  hand  a  fortunate  high  number, 
but,  walking  away  in  fine  feather  over  his  luck,  he  met  the 
mother  of  a  friend  of  his,  sobbing  wildly  as  she  went.  Her 
son  had  been  drafted,  and  the  two  hundred  dollars  of  redemp- 
tion money  was  as  far  beyond  her  reach  as  those  dazzling 
crests  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  are  above  the  lame  beggar  at  the 
Alhambra  gate.  Then  the  kindly  fellow,  troubled  by  her 
grief  and  mindful  of  the  fact  that,  orphan  as  he  was,  his  own 
parting  would  be  at  no  such  cost  of  tears,  offered  to  serve  in 
her  boy's  stead.  Her  passion  of  gratitude  could  not  let  his 
service  go  all  unrecompensed.  Poorest  of  the  poor,  she  went 
about  among  her  humble  friends,  lauding  his  deed,  until  she 
had  collected,  peseta  by  peseta,  the  sum  of  sixteen  dollars, 


38  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

which  she  thrust  into  his  hands  to  buy  comforts  for  the  cam- 
paign. But  another  sobbing  mother  sought  him  out.  He 
had  saved  her  neighbor's  son ;  would  he  not  save  hers  ? 
Laughing  at  her  logic  and  moved  by  her  faith  in  him,  he 
answered:  "I  am  only  one  man,  senora.  I  cannot  go  in 
place  of  two.  But  here  are  sixteen  dollars.  If  you  can  find 
a  substitute  at  such  a  price,  the  money  is  yours." 

Sixteen  dollars  is  a  fortune  to  hunger  and  nakedness,  and 
the  substitute  was  found.  As  the  year  wore  on  those  two 
mothers  did  not  let  the  city  forget  its  light-hearted  hero,  and 
a  great  assembly  gathered  at  the  station  to  honor  his  return. 
A  remnant  of  his  comrades  descended  from  the  train,  but  as 
for  him,  they  said,  he  had  died  in  Cuba  of  the  fever  months 
before. 

His  was  no  poetic  death  like  that  of  the  Abencerrages. 
Happy  Abencerrages !  They  knew  the  Alhambra  in  the 
freshness  of  her  beauty.  Their  last  uplifted  glances  looked 
upon  the  most  exquisite  ceilings  in  the  world.  Their  blood 
left  immortal  stains  on  the  marble  base  of  the  fountain. 
But  this  young  Spaniard,  in  his  obscure  Cuban  grave,  only 
one  out  of  the  eighty  thousand,  will  promptly  be  forgotten. 
No  importa.  There  must  be  something  better  than  glory  for 
the  man  who  does  more  than  his  duty. 


THE  MOSQUE  OK  CORDOVA 


IV 

A    FUNCTION    IN    GRANADA 

"O  Love  Divine,  Celestial  Purity, 

Pity  my  cries  ! 
My  soul  is  prone  before  a  clouded  throne. 

Let  thy  keen  light  arise, 
Pierce  this  obscurity 

And  free  my  dream-bound  eyes  ! " 

—  Gam-vet* s  Last  Poem. 

THE  civilization  of  Spain,  streaked  as  it  is  with 
Oriental  barbarisms,  belated  and  discouraged  as  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century  finds  it,  is  still  in 
many  respects  finer  than  our  own.  In  everything  that 
relates  to  grace  and  charm  of  social  intercourse,  to  the  digni- 
fied expression  of  reverence,  compassion,  and  acknowledg- 
ment, Spain  puts  us  to  the  blush.  I  was  especially  touched 
in  Granada  by  the  whole-souled  sympathy  and  veneration 
with  which  the  city  rendered  public  honors  to  one  of  its  sons, 
Angel  Ganivet,  who  died  in  the  preceding  winter,  a  poet 
hardly  thirty. 

Although  I  had  glanced  over  obituary  notices  of  this 
Spanish  writer  in  the  Paris  papers,  I  had  but  a  vague  idea 
of  his  work  and  life,  and  sought,  before  the  night  of  the 
memorial  ceremonies,  for  further  information.  I  appealed, 

39 


40  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

first  of  all,  to  our  table  waiter,  whose  keen  black  eyes  instantly 
turned  sad  and  tender. 

"Pobre!  Pobre  !  He  threw  himself  into  the  river  at  Riga, 
in  Russia,  where  he  was  consul.  It  was  at  the  close  of 
the  war.  And  he  such  a  genius  !  So  young  !  So  true  a 
Spaniard  !  But  all  Granada  will  be  at  the  theatre.  He  left 
his  play  to  Granada,  asking  that  it  be  seen  here  first  of  all. 
I  have  never  read  his  books,  but  I  have  met  him  in  the  streets, 
and  lifted  my  hat  to  him  for  a  wise  caballero  who  cared  greatly 
for  Spain." 

My  next  appeal  was  to  our  kind  neighbor,  the  English 
consul,  who  assured  me  laughingly  that  he,  like  myself,  was 
vainly  ransacking  the  few  bookstores  of  Granada  for  Ganivet's 
works. 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  heard  the  name,"  he  added,  "  was 
some  three  or  four  years  ago,  when  I  noticed  an  old  gentle- 
man standing  often  in  front  of  my  house,  and  gazing  at  the 
British  coat-of-arms  above  my  door.  He  told  me  one  day 
when  I  drew  him  into  talk  that  he  had  a  nephew,  Angel  Gani- 
vet,  roaming  in  foreign  lands.  l  But  he  does  not  forget  his 
old  uncle,'  said  he.  c  I  always  receive  my  little  pension 
prompt  to  the  day,  and  so  I  like  to  look  at  the  foreign  shields 
about  the  city,  and  remember  my  nephew,  far  away,  who 
remembers  me.'  That  was  a  trifle,  of  course,  but  it  gave  me 
a  kindly  feeling  for  the  young  fellow,  and  I'm  sorry  he  came 
to  such  an  end.  They  found  him  in  the  river,  you  know. 
I  dare  say  it  was  suicide,  and  likely  enough  the  defeat  of 
Spain  had  its  share  in  causing  his  despondency  ;  but  nobody 
knows.  He  was  a  zealous  patriot,  I  understand,  and  all 
Granada  seems  to  take  his  death  to  heart." 


A   Function  in  Granada  41 

My  next  authority  was  an  aged  Granadine,  a  man  of  let- 
ters ;  but  he  had  not  read  Ganivet's  books. 

"I  have  heard  of  him  often,"  he  said,  "but  I  never  met 
him.  He  was  not  much  in  Granada,  although  he  seems  to 
have  had  a  romantic  affection  for  the  place.  Bueno !  Its 
pomegranates  are  worth  remembering.  But  Ganivet  liked 
to  live  in  foreign  countries,  with  the  idea  of  understanding 
his  own  better  by  comparison.  He  was  young ;  he  still  had 
hopes  for  Spain.  Eighty  years  are  on  my  head,  and  I  have 
long  done  with  hoping.  I  have  served  in  my  country's 
armies,  I  have  served  in  her  Government,  I  have  seen  much 
of  Church  and  State,  and  since  the  night  when  they  murdered 
General  Prim  I  have  seen  nothing  good.  But  Ganivet  had 
faith  in  the  national  future,  and  the  people,  without  wait- 
ing to  ask  on  what  that  faith  was  founded,  love  him  for  it, 
and  mourn  his  loss  as  if  he  had  been  their  benefactor.  They 
are  all  going  to  pour  into  the  theatre  to-morrow  night  to 
hear  his  symbolic  drama,  that  not  one  in  a  hundred  of  them 
will  try  to  understand,  and  the  hundredth  will  get  it  all 
wrong." 

The  "  function  "  took  place  in  the  Gran  Teatro  de  Isabel 
la  Catblica,  a  name  to  conjure  with  throughout  all  Spain,  and 
especially  in  Granada.  The  day  set  for  the  performance, 
and  widely  advertised  by  newspapers  and  posters  for  a 
month  in  advance,  was  a  Wednesday.  On  Tuesday,  in 
a  fever  lest  we  be  too  late,  we  arrived  at  the  ticket  office. 
We  had  our  hurry  all  to  ourselves.  Apparently  nobody  else 
had  as  yet  taken  a  seat.  The  office  was  empty,  save  for  us 
and  our  attendant  train  of  boys  and  beggars. 

The  official  in  charge,  deaf,  slow,  and  courteous,  invited 


42  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

us  into  a  private  room  and  gave  us  rocking-chairs  by  the 
brasero,  while  he,  with  paper  and  pencil,  laboriously  added  the 
price  of  our  entradas  to  the  price  of  our  modest  box,  and 
spent  five  minutes  in  subtracting  the  amount  from  the  figure 
of  the  small  bill  we  handed  him.  The  counting  out  of  the 
change  was  another  strain  on  his  arithmetic,  and,  after  all 
these  toils,  we  were  still  without  tickets.  He  said  he  would 
"write  them  out  at  home,"  and  we  might  send  some  one  for 
them  the  next  day.  But  he  affably  offered  to  show  us  the 
theatre,  and  led  us  through  black  passages  to  a  great  dusky 
space,  where,  while  he  struck  match  after  match,  we  could 
catch  glimpses  of  pit  and  balconies,  and  even  a  far-ofF  stage, 
with  a  group  of  actors  gathered  about  a  lamp,  rehearsing  the 
play.  In  Wednesday  morning's  paper,  however,  they  an- 
nounced with  entire  nonchalance  that  they  were  not  ready 
yet,  and  would  postpone  the  representation  until  Thursday. 

On  Thursday  evening  the  theatre,  choking  full  though  it 
was,  hardly  presented  a  brilliant  appearance.  Granada  is  not 
Madrid,  nor  Seville,  and  the  best  the  Granadines  had  to  offer 
their  dead  poet  was  the  tribute  of  their  presence  in  such  guise 
as  they  could  command.  The  big,  barnlike  theatre,  with  its 
rows  of  broken  lamp-chimneys,  looked  shabby,  and  the  rag- 
tag proportion  of  the  audience  was  so  great  that  it  overflowed 
the  Paraiso  into  the  aisles  and  doorways  and  all  conceivable 
corners.  People  were  so  jumbled  and  crumpled  together 
that,  with  reminiscences  of  my  traveller's  hold-all,  I  found 
myself  wondering  if  they  would  ever  shake  out  smooth  again. 

Whole  families  were  there,  from  the  infant  in  arms  that 
invariably  screamed  when  the  actors  were  reciting  any  passage 
of  peculiar  delicacy,  to  the  dozing  old  grandfather,  who  kept 


A  Function  in  Granada  43 

dropping  his  cigarette  out  of  his  mouth  in  a  way  that  threat- 
ened to  set  us  all  on  fire.  The  gentlemen,  even  in  the  boxes 
and  the  stalls,  were  generally  ungloved,  and  we  did  not  see 
a  dress  suit  in  the  house.  Cloaks  and  neckties  were  ablaze 
with  color  as  usual,  but  the  masculine  toilets  eluded  our 
stricter  observation ;  for  when  the  curtain  was  up,  our  eyes 
were  all  for  the  stage,  and  between  acts  your  Spaniard  sits 
with  hat  on  head,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke. 

But  the  Andalusian  ladies  made  amends  for  everything. 
By  some  prehistoric  agreement,  Spanish  women  have  yielded 
the  rainbow  to  the  men,  reserving  for  their  own  attire  the 
quiet  elegance  of  black  or  the  festive  beauty  of  pure  white. 
The  dress  that  evening,  even  in  the  principal  boxes,  was 
conspicuously  simple.  But  the  clear  brunette  complexions, 
the  delicate  contours,  the  rich  black  hair  worn  high  and 
crowned  with  natural  flowers,  the  waving  fans  and  flashing 
glances,  cast  a  glamour  over  the  whole  scene. 

The  memorial  rites  themselves  made  up  in  quantity  what- 
ever they  might  lack, in  quality,  continuing  from  eight  o'clock 
till  two.  An  orchestra,  organized  from  Granada  musicians 
for  this  occasion,  opened  the  programme.  The  bust  of 
Ganivet,  wrought  by  a  young  Granada  sculptor,  was  rever- 
ently unveiled.  The  star  actor,  Fuentes  of  Granada,  who 
had  undertaken  with  his  troupe  to  present  his  fellow-towns- 
man's drama  purely  as  a  labor  of  love,  read  an  interpretation 
written  by  one  of  Granada's  leading  critics.  The  orchestra 
was  in  evidence  again,  introducing  the  first  act,  entitled 
- "  Faith."  After  this  the  orchestra  played  Breton's  serenade, 
"  In  the  Alhambra,"  and  the  curtain  rose  for  the  second  act 
on  so  natural  a  scene-painting  of  the  famous  fortress  that  the 


44  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

audience  went  wild  with  enthusiasm,  and  the  blushing  artist, 
also  a  Granadine,  had  to  be  literally  shoved  from  the  wings 
upon  the  stage  to  receive  his  plaudits. 

Between  the  second  act,  "Love,"  and  the  last  act,  "Death," 
came  an  andante  elegiaco,  "  written  expressly  for  this  artistic 
solemnity  "  by  a  Granada  composer.  Here,  again,  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  audience  was  unbounded,  and  nothing  would 
do  but  the  reluctant  master  must  leave  his  box,  struggle 
through  the  packed  multitude  to  the  conductor's  stand,  and 
take  the  baton  himself  for  a  second  rendering  from  the  first 
chord  to  the  last.  At  the  close  of  the  third  act  the  orchestra 
did  its  part  once  more,  and  the  celebration  ended,  somewhat 
incongruously,  with  a  lively  bit  of  modern  comedy. 

There  was  imperfection  enough,  had  one  been  disposed  to 
look  for  it.  The  fifty  members  of  the  impromptu  orchestra 
had  hardly  brought  themselves  into  accord,  the  acting  was  not 
of  the  best  Spanish  quality,  and  the  players  had  not  half 
learned  their  parts.  Every  long  declamation  was  a  duet,  the 
prompter's  rapid  undertone  charging  along  beneath  the  actor's 
voice  like  a  horse  beneath  its  rider.  But  the  audience  under- 
stood, forgave,  were  grateful,  and  sat  with  sublime  patience 
through  the  long  pauses  between  the  acts,  repeating  one  to 
another,  "They  say  Fuentes  is  studying  his  speeches."  As 
the  caustic  old  scholar  had  predicted,  most  of  them,  apparently, 
did  not  try  to  understand  the  allegory.  They  applauded  the 
obviously  poetic  touches,  the  palpably  dramatic  situations,  and 
when,  in  the  Alhambra  act,  a  gypsy  air  was  sung,  the  galleries 
delightedly  caught  it  up  and  chorused  it  over  again. 

But  in  general  that  nondescript  assembly  looked  on  in 
passive  gravity  while  El  Escultor  de  su  Alma  was  rendered, 


A  Function  in  Granada  45 

as  their  poet  had  bidden,  in  their  own  theatre  and  for  them. 
They  may  have  gathered  hints  and  snatches  of  that  mystical 
message  from  the  -dead,  whose  lofty  look,  fixed  in  shining 
marble,  dominated  all  the  house. 

The  restless  Spirit  of  Man,  seeking  the  perfect  Truth, 
tears  himself  loose  from  the  bride  of  his  youth,  Heavenly 
Faith,  and  wanders  in  beggary  through  the  world.  Yet 
Truth  for  him  can  only  be  the  child  of  his  union  with  Faith, 
and  in  parting  from  one  he  has  parted  from  both.  In  old  age, 
almost  maddened  by  his  wanderings  and  woes,  he  meets  his 
Truth  again,  full-grown  and  beautiful,  but  is  so  fierce  and 
wild  in  his  desire  to  possess  her  that  only  Death  can  reconcile 
them  —  Death  and  that  Heavenly  Faith  who  could  not 
abandon  him,  though  he  had  forsaken  her. 

Ganivet's  mother,  who,  with  his  brothers,  witnessed  the 
play  from  behind  the  scenes,  is  said  to  have  rejoiced  in  it  as 
a  last  solemn  assurance  from  her  son  of  his  secure  repose  in 
the  Catholic  faith  of  his  fathers.  It  may  not  have  meant  so 
much  to  that  great  audience,  many  of  whom  could  neither 
read  nor  write,  but  those  tiers  upon  tiers  of  dark  Spanish  faces 
were  full  of  earnestness  and  of  a  proud  content.  However 
it  may  have  baffled  their  heads,  this  legacy  of  a  play,  in  its 
Alhambra  setting,  spoke  clearly  to  their  hearts.  One  raga- 
muffin said  to  another,  as  an  all-sufficient  criticism,  "  He  was 
thinking  of  Granada  when  he  wrote  it." 

A  few  days  later,  I  found  and  eagerly  read  Angel  Ganivet's 
most  significant  booklet,  Idearium,  published  in  the  autumn 
of  1896,  in  which  he  sets  forth  his  dream  for  the  future  of 
his  beloved  country. 

Ganivet  claims  that  the  deepest  moral  element  in  Spanish 


46  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

character  is  stoicism,  "  not  the  brutal  and  heroic  stoicism  of 
Cato,  nor  the  serene  and  majestic  stoicism  of  Marcus  Aurelius, 
nor  the  rigid  and  extreme  stoicism  of  Epictetus,  but  the 
natural  and  humane  stoicism  of  Seneca."  He  holds  that 
Seneca,  himself  a  Spaniard,  found  his  philosophy  in  the  in- 
herent genius  of  the  country,  and  only  gave  voice  to  the 
indwelling  soul  of  Spain.  The  Spanish  church,  cherishing 
this  element,  became  a  thing  apart  from  the  general  Catholi- 
cism of  Europe.  The  long  warfare  and  incidental  intercourse 
with  the  Moors  stamped  Spanish  Christianity  with  its  two 
other  characteristic  features  of  mysticism  and  fanaticism. 
"  Mysticism  was  like  a  sanctification  of  African  sensuality, 
and  fanaticism  was  a  turning  against  ourselves,  when  the 
Reconquest  ended,  of  the  fury  accumulated  during  eight 
centuries  of  combat." 

The  author,  muy  espanol,  is  naturally  muy  catblico,  yet  he 
protests  against  violence  in  the  repression  of  other  forms  of 
religion.  "  Liberty  should  bring  with  it  no  fear."  He 
believes  that  Spain  is,  above  all,  sui  generis,  independent  and 
individual.  The  representative  Spaniard  is  a  free  lance,  striv- 
ing and  conquering  by  his  own  impulse  and  under  his  own 
direction,  like  the  Cid  of  old  or  Cortes  in  the  field  of  arms, 
like  Loyola  in  the  church,  like  Cervantes  in  letters.  He  lays 
stress  on  the  achievements  of  Spanish  art  —  the  master  paint- 
ings of  Velazquez  and  Murillo,  the  master  dramas  of  Lope  de 
Vega  and  Calderon,  as  expressing,  better  than  political  history 
has  expressed,  that  intensification  of  Spanish  life  resulting 
from  the  struggle  against  the  Arabs  "and  making  of  our 
nation  a  Christian  Greece." 

He  finds  it  logical  and  right  that  Spain,  after  her  successive 


A  Function  in  Granada  47 

periods  of  Roman  influence,  Visigothic  influence,  Arab  influ- 
ence, and  her  modern  era  of  colonial  expansion,  should  now 
abandon  foreign  policies  and  concentrate  all  her  vitality  within 
her  own  borders.  Not  by  the  sword,  but  by  the  spirit,  would 
he  have  Spain  henceforth  hold  sway  over  mankind,  and  espe- 
cially over  the  Spanish-descended  peoples  of  South  America. 

He  winces  under  the  monopoly  of  the  term  "  American  " 
by  the  citizens  of  the  United  States  —  "a  formidable -nation," 
he  admits,  "  very  populous,  very  rich,  and  apparently  very 
well  governed."  He  notes,  in  contrast,  the  poverty  and 
comparative  anarchy  of  the  South  American  republics,  but 
he  urges  still  that  the  Spanish  character,  shaped  through  such 
eventful  centuries,  is  an  entity,  clear  and  firm,  with  qualities 
well  defined,  whereas  the  Yankees  are  yet  in  the  fusing  pot. 
He  would  have  all  the  peoples  of  Hispanian  descent  recognize 
and  realize  in  themselves  this  Spanish  individuality,  effecting 
not  a  political  union,  but  a  "confederation,  intellectual  and 
spiritual,"  whose  first  aim  should  be  the  preservation  of  Spanish 
ideas  and  ideals,  and  the  second,  the  free  gift  of  these  to  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth. 

The  ancient  glory  of  Spain,  he  says,  has  vanished  like  a 
dream  ;  let  a  new  and  whiter  glory  dawn.  Her  career  of 
material  conquest  is  ended.  Those  savage  struggles  have  left 
her  faint  and  spent.  Let  her  now  seek  to  attain,  through 
purification  and  discipline,  such  fresh  fulness  of  life  as  shall 
insure  the  triumph  of  her  spiritual  forces  —  her  fervent  faith 
and  her  unworldly  wisdom.  "  Our  Ulysses  is  Don  Quixote." 


IN  SIGHT  OF  THE  GIRALDA 

"  We  were  nearing  Seville.  I  felt  the  eager  throbbing  of  my  heart.  Seville  had 
ever  been  for  me  the  symbol  of  light,  the  city  of  love  and  joy."  — VALDES  :  La  Her- 
mana  San  Sulpicio. 

ONE  of  the  wise  sayings  of  Andalusia  runs,  "  Do 
not  squeeze  the  orange  till  the  juice  is  bitter." 
And  so  we  said  good-by  to  Granada  before  we 
were  ready  to  go,  and  persuaded  ourselves,  in  defiance  of 
maps  and  time-tables,  that  our  shortest  route  to  Seville  led  by 
Ronda.  The  weather  did  its  very  best  to  dampen  our  enthu- 
siasm for  this  wildest  of  crag  aeries,  equally  famed  for  roman- 
tic beauty  of  outlook  and  salubrity  of  air.  Men  live  long  in 
Ronda,  unless,  indeed,  they  hit  against  a  bullet  while  prac- 
tising their  hereditary  trade  of  contrabandists.  They  have  a 
saying  that  octogenarians  there  are  only  chickens,  but  one 
should  not  believe  all  that  they  say  in  Ronda.  Did  we  not 
clamber,  slipping  on  wet  stones,  down  a  precipitous  path  to 
peer,  from  under  dripping  umbrellas,  at  what  our  guide  de- 
clared was  an  old  Roman  bridge  ?  "  It  doesn't  look  old  and 
it  doesn't  look  Roman,"  was  the  artist's  dubious  comment, 
but  our  highly  recommended  conductor,  a  Gib,  as  the  English- 
Spanish  natives  of  Gibraltar  Rock  are  called,  assured  us  that 
it  was  built  in  the  days  of  Julius  Caesar,  but  had  been  won- 

48 


In  Sight  of  the  Giralda  49 

derfully  well  preserved.  We  eyed  him  thoughtfully,  bearing 
in  mind  that  he  had  already  pointed  out  the  statue  of  a  long- 
dead  poet  as  a  living  politician;  but  we  meekly  continued 
through  the  lashing  rain  to  follow  his  long  footsteps  over  the 
breakneck  ways  of  that  natural  fortress  where  race  after  race 
has  left  its  autograph.  The  Roman  columns  of  the  church 
make  the  Arab  cupolas  look  young,  and  put  the  Gothic  choir 
altogether  out  of  countenance.  A  bright-shawled  peasant 
woman,  who  we  fondly  hoped  might  be  a  smuggler's  wife, 
drew  us  delicious  water  from  a  Roman  well  in  a  Moorish 
patio,  where  a  mediaeval  king  of  gentle  memory  used  to  drink 
his  wine  from  cups  wrought  of  the  skulls  of  those  enemies 
whom  he  had  beheaded  with  his  own  sword.  But  not  all  this, 
and  more,  could  efface  our  doubts  of  that  Roman  bridge,  which, 
indeed,  we  found,  on  a  belated  perusal  of  our  guide-books,  had 
been  erected  by  a  Malaga  architect  in  the  last  century. 

The  street  rabble  of  Ronda  was  the  rudest  and  fiercest  we 
encountered  anywhere  in  Spain.  Several  times  our  guide 
wheeled  suddenly  to  confront  some  gypsyish  lad,  creeping  up 
behind  us  with  stone  all  ready  to  throw,  and  when,  at  a  glint 
of  sunset  through  the  stormy  clouds,  we  tried  to  slip  out  un- 
attended to  the  neighboring  alameda,  with  its  far-sweeping  pros- 
pect of  folded  mountain  ranges  and  its  vertical  view  of  gorge 
and  rushing  river,  the  children  actually  hounded  us  back  to  the 
hotel.  Their  leader  was  a  scrofulous  boy,  with  one  cheek  eaten 
away,  who  had  been  taught  to  press  his  face  so  closely  upon 
strangers  that,  in  fear  of  his  open  sore,  they  would  hastily  give 
money  to  keep  him  back.  He  was  a  merry  scamp  and  got  a 
world  of  sport  out  of  his  sickening  business,  laughing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  to  see  himself  "  avoided  like  the  sun." 

E 


50  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Although  the  tempest  had  lulled  by  evening,  Ronda,  still 
inhospitable,  would  not  let  us  sleep.  All  up  and  down  the 
window-grated  street  sounded,  from  midnight  to  morning,  a 
tinkling  of  guitars.  It  was,  forsooth,  St.  Joseph's  Day,  and 
every  Don  Jose,  every  Dona  Josefa,  every  little  Pepe,  every 
pretty  Pepita,  must  be  saluted  by  a  serenade.  All  Andalu- 
sians  are  musical,  taking  much  pleasure,  moreover,  in  one  of 
their  own  bits  of  philosophy,  "  The  poorest  player  has  his 
uses,  for  he  can  at  least  drive  the  rats  out  of  the  house." 
Rats  or  no,  we  left  Ronda  by  the  morning  train. 

Our  carriage  was  crowded  with  several  Spaniards  and  a 
"  Jew-Gib,"  who,  without  saying  "  oxte  nl  moxte^"  assumed 
full  charge  of  us  and  our  belongings  for  the  journey.  This 
unceremonious  but  really  helpful  escort  put  every  one  of 
his  fellow-travellers  through  a  sharp  catechism  as  to  birth- 
place, business,  destination,  and  the  like.  Our  turn  came  first 
of  all.  "  You  are  English  ? "  "  We  speak  English." 
"  Ha  !  "  He  fell  into  our  own  vernacular.  "Came  about 
three  thousand  miles  to  Spain  ?  "  "  Across  the  channel." 
He  chuckled  with  prompt  appreciation  of  the  situation  and 
mendaciously  translated  to  the  carriage  at  large,  "  The 
ladies  are  distinguished  Londoners,  on  their  way  to  visit  rela- 
tives in  Seville,"  whereat  the  Andalusians  smiled  sleepily 
upon  us  and  asked  permission  to  smoke.  We  consented 
cheerfully,  as  our  Spanish  sisters  had  taught  us  that  we 
should.  "  I  like  it,"  one  pallid  sefiora  had  said  on  an  earlier 
trip.  "  It  makes  me  sick,  yes,  but  men  ought  to  be 
men." 

We  were  journeying  toward  the  very  palace  of  the  sun, 
with  gray  ranks  of  olive  trees  standing  guard  on  either  hand. 


In  Sight  of  the  Giralda  51 

"  And  posted  among  them,  like  white  doves,  could  be  seen 
now  and  again  a  few  mills  where  the  bitter  olive  is  wont  to 
pour  its  juice."  Orange  plantations  and  hedges  of  the  bluish 
aloe,  fig  trees,  palms,  and  all  manner  of  strange,  tropical  flowers 
gladdened  our  approach  to  Seville.  And  when,  at  last,  we 
saw  from  afar  the  world-praised  Giralda,  the  Moorish  bell- 
tower  of  the  cathedral,  soaring  pink  into  a  purple  sky,  we  felt 
as  if  we  were  really  arrived  in  fairyland. 

Our  friendly  Gib  put  his  tall  figure  between  us  and  the 
howling  press  of  swarthy  porters  and  cab-drivers,  scolded, 
expostulated,  threatened,  picked  out  his  men,  beat  down  their 
prices,  called  up  a  policeman  to  witness  the  bargain  and  take 
the  number  of  our  cab,  raised  his  hat,  and  vanished  into 
grateful  memory. 

Six  weeks  in  Seville !  And  six  weeks  in  a  Seville  home, 
where  evening  after  evening  the  gay  youth  of  Andalusia 
laughed  and  sang,  danced  and  rattled  the  castanets,  and 
cast  about  our  wondering  Western  souls  strange  witcheries 
from  which  we  shall  never  more  go  free.  It  was  all  as 
Oriental  as  a  dream.  The  Sultana  of  the  South  lifted  her 
gleaming  coronet  of  domes  and  pinnacles  above  such  a 
kingdom  of  idle,  delicious  mirth  as  has  permanently  unfitted 
us  for  considering  it  important  to  do  our  duty.  Our  heredi- 
tary bits  of  Plymouth  Rock  were  melted  up  in  that  fervent 
heat.  Right  or  wrong  ?  "  Where  there  is  music,  there  can 
be  no  harm."  True  or  false? 

"In  this  world,  my  masters, 

There's  neither  truth  nor  lie, 
But  all  things  take  the  color 
Of  the  glass  before  the  eye." 


5  2  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Only  six  weeks,  and  yet  we  shall  ever  go  homesick  for 
Seville,  for  her  palm  trees  and  orange  gardens,  her  narrow 
streets  like  lanes  of  shadow,  her  tiled  and  statued  patios,  with 
caged  birds  singing  answer  to  the  ripple  of  the  fountain,  the 
musical  midnight  cry  of  her  serenos^  "  her  black  and  burning 
eyes  like  beacons  in  the  dark,"  her  sighing  serenaders,  "  lyri- 
cal mosquitoes,"  outside  the  grated  window  or  beneath  the 
balcony,  her  fragrances  of  rose  and  jessamine,  her  poetic 
sense  of  values.  A  homeless  Andalusian,  dinnerless  and  in 
rags,  strums  on  his  guitar,  a  necessity  which  he  would  not 
dream  of  selling  for  such  a  mere  luxury  as  bread,  and  is 
happy.  There  is  always  sun  to  sleep  in.  There  are  always 
piquant  faces  and  gliding  forms  to  gaze  after.  What  more 
does  a  mortal  want  ?  Exquisite  Seville !  No  wonder  that 
her  exiled  sons  still  sing,  after  years  of  "  comfortable  living  " 
in  foreign  cities  :  — 

"  When  1  am  missing,  hunt  me  down 

In  Andalusia's  purple  light, 
Where  all  the  beauties  are  so  brown, 
And  all  the  wits  so  bright." 

Yet  the  old  Arabian  enchantment  casts  a  glamour  which 
the  Anglo-Saxon  vision  dimly  recognizes  as  such  and  faintly 
strives  against.  To  the  clear  survey  all  is  not  charm.  Grace, 
mirth,  and  music,  on  the  one  hand,  are  offset  by  ignorance, 
suffering,  and  vice  on  the  other.  Many  evil  things  were  told 
us,  and  some  ugly  things  we  saw,  but  to  look  on  Andalusia  is 
to  love  her,  even  while  realizing  that  to  live  with  her  would 
put  that  love  to  a  very  stringent  test. 

The  lordly  Guadalquivir,  for  instance,  so  fair  to  see  from 


In  Sight  of  the   Giralda  53 

the  picture-making  summit  of  the  Giralda,  as  he  lingers  through 
his  blooming  Paradise,  forgetful  of  the  ocean,  is  not  altogether 
goodly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  black  and  stinging  flies  he  breeds 
To  plague  the  decent  body  of  mankind!  " 

The  Andalusian  leisure  was  a  perpetual  delight  to  us.  A 
typical  Seville  shop  reaches  far  along  the  street  front,  with 
many  open  doors,  and  a  counter  running  the  full  length. 
Here  ladies  sit  in  pairs  and  groups,  never  singly,  to  cheapen 
fans  and  mantillas,  while  the  smiling  salesmen,  cigarette  in 
hand,  shrug  and  gesticulate  and  give  back  banter  for  banter  as 
gayly  as  if  it  were  all  a  holiday  frolic.  Scraps  of  the  graceful 
bargaining  would  float  to  our  ears. 

"  Is  the  quality  good  ?  " 

"  As  good  as  God's  blessing." 

Among  the  tempting  wares  of  Seville  are  Albacete  knives, 
with  gorgeous  handles  of  inlaid  ebony,  tortoise,  or  ivory. 
The  peasant  women  of  Andalusia  so  resent  the  charge  of 
carrying  these  knives  in  their  garters  that  the  Seville  gamin 
dodges  offence  by  asking  them  in  an  unnecessarily  loud  voice 
if  they  carry  garters  in  their  knives.  The  irascible  dames 
do  not  stand  upon  fine  points  of  rhetoric,  however,  and  when 
the  small  boy  has  delivered  his  shot,  he  does  well  to  take  to 
his  heels.  We  once  saw  one  of  these  sturdy  women,  while  a 
line  of  soldiers,  bristling  with  steel,  was  holding  a  street,  seize 
a  gallant  son  of  Mars  by  the  shoulder  and  swing  him,  amid 
the  laughter  of  his  comrades,  out  of  her  path  as  if  he  were  a 
cabbage.  Nobody  knew  how  to  stop  her,  and  she  trudged 
serenely  on,  her  broad  back  to  those  helpless  bayonets,  down 
the  forbidden  way. 


54  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

The  beggars  of  Seville  are  gentler  than  those  of  Ronda  and 
Granada,  but  hardly  less  numerous.  Mendicant  figures  are 
thick  as  Guadalquivir  mosquitoes  in  my  memory  of  Andalu- 
sia. Some  of  those  pitiful  children  will  haunt  me  till  I  die. 
There  was  a  forlorn  urchin,  with  filmy,  frightful  eyes,  to  be 
seen  in  all  weathers  crouching  on  one  side  of  the  road  leading 
up  to  the  Alhambra,  so  dull  and  dreary  a  little  fellow  that  he 
hardly  grasped  the  coppers  when  they  were  thrust  into  his 
weakly  groping  hands,  and  hardly  stayed  his  monotonous  for- 
mula of  entreaty  for  his  other  monotonous  formula  of  thanks. 
There  was  an  idiot  child  in  Seville  —  a  mere  lump  of  defor- 
mity —  that  would  rush  out  upon  the  startled  stranger  with 
an  inarticulate,  fierce  little  yell,  clutching  at  charity  with  a 
tiny,  twisted  claw.  He  seemed  the  very  incarnation  of 
childish  woe  and  wrong.  Almost  every  hand  dived  into 
pocket  for  him,  and  he  was  probably  worth  far  more  to  his 
proprietors  than  his  rival  on  the  street,  a  crafty  little  girl, 
with  the  most  lustrous  eyes  that  painter  ever  dreamed.  They 
were  not  blue  nor  gray,  but  a  living  light  in  which  both  those 
colors  had  been  melted. 

The  economists,  who  say  so  firmly  that  "  nothing  should 
ever  be  given  to  mendicant  children,"  can  hardly  have  had 
the  experience  of  seeing  Murillo's  own  cherubs,  their  wings 
hidden  under  the  dirt,  fluttering  about  the  car  windows  at 
Andalusian  stations.  I  have  it  still  on  my  conscience  that  I 
occasionally  gave  away  my  comrade's  share  of  our  luncheon 
as  well  as  my  own.  She  was  too  young  and 'too  polite  to 
reproach  me,  but  too  hungry  to  be  comforted  by  the  assurance 
that  I  reproached  myself.  Sometimes  a  foreign  traveller,  very 
sure  of  his  Spanish,  would  attempt  remonstrance  with  these 


THE  AI.HAMBRA.     HALL  OF  JUSTICE 


In  Sight  of  the  Giralda  55 

small  nuisances.  I  remember  one  kindly  Teuton  in  particu- 
lar. Commerce  had  claimed  him  for  its  own,  but  the  pre- 
destined German  professor  shone  out  of  his  mild  blue  eyes. 
A  ragamuffin  had  mounted  the  car  steps  to  beg  at  the  window, 
and  Mein  Herr  delivered  him  such  a  lecture  that  the  young- 
ster clung  to  his  perch,  fascinated  with  astonishment  at  the 
novel  doctrine,  until  the  train  was  in  alarmingly  swift  motion. 

"  This  is  a  very  bad  habit  of  thine.  I  told  thee  so  a  month 
ago." 

"  Me,  sir  ?  " 

"  Thee,  boy.  When  I  passed  over  this  road  last,  thou 
wert  begging  at  the  windows,  to  my  shame  if  not  to  thine. 
Tut,  tut !  Go  thy  ways.  Look  for  work,  work,  work." 

«  Work,  sir  ?  " 

"  Work,  boy.  And  when  thou  hast  found  it,  love  it,  and 
do  it  with  a  will.  Learn  to  read  and  write.  Wash  thy  face 
and  change  thy  customs,  and  when  thou  art  richer  than  I, 
then  will  I  give  thee  a  peseta." 

Mendicancy  is  bred  of  ignorance,  and  in  the  seventeen  and 
a  half  millions  that  make  up  the  population  of  Spain,  more 
than  twelve  millions  do  not  read  nor  write. 

Seville  sight-seeing  is  no  brief  matter.  You  must  climb 
the  Giralda,  walk  in  the  parks,  view  the  yellowed  fragments 
of  the  ancient  city  wall,  visit  the  tobacco  factory,  shop  in 
Las  Sierpes,  buy  pottery  in  Triana,  see  the  gypsy  dances  in 
the  cafes,  attend  the  Thursday  rag-fair,  do  reverence  to  the 
Columbus  manuscripts  in  the  Biblioteca  Columbina,  look  up  the 
haunts  of  Don  Juan,  Figaro,  Pedro  the  Cruel,  and  explore  the 
curious  "  House  of  Pilate,"  which,  tradition  says,  was  built  by 
a  pilgrim  noble  after  the  Jerusalem  pattern.  You  must  lose 


56  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

your  heart  to  the  Alcazar,  the  Alhambra  of  Seville,  a  storied 
palace  embowered  in  fountain-freshened  gardens  of  palm  and 
magnolia,  oranges  and  cypresses,  rose  and  myrtle,  with  shad- 
owy arcades  leading  to  marble  baths  and  arabesqued  pavil- 
ions. You  must  follow  Murillo  from  gallery  to  gallery,  from 
church  to  church,  above  all,  from  the  Hospital  de  la  Caridad, 
where  hang  six  of  his  greatest  compositions,  to  the  Museo  Pro- 
vincial, where  over  a  score  of  the  Master's  sacred  works, 
lovely  Virgins,  longing  saints,  deep-eyed  Christ-Childs,  rain 
their  sweet  influence.  And  first,  last,  and  always,  there  is 
the  cathedral.  We  had  been  stunned  at  Burgos,  blind  to  all 
save  the  Moorish  features  of  Cordova,  almost  untouched  by 
the  cold  splendors  of  Granada,  but  to  Seville,  as  later  to  To- 
ledo, we  surrendered  utterly.  Beauty,  mystery,  sublimity  — 
these  are  Seville  cathedral.  Five  centuries  have  gone  to  the 
rearing  and  enriching  of  those  solemn  aisles  and  awful  choir. 
The  colossal  structure,  second  in  size  only  to  St.  Peter's,  is 
a  majesty  before  which  Luther  himself  might  well  have  trem- 
bled. Within  a  Spanish  cathedral  one  begins  to  understand 
the  mighty  hold  of  Roman  Catholicism  on  Spain.  "  I  love," 
says  Alarcon,  whose  jest  and  earnest  are  as  closely  twined 
as  fibres  of  the  same  heart,  "  the  clouds  of  incense  which  rise 
to  the  cupola  of  the  Catholic  temple,  amid  the  harmonies  of 
the  holy  organ.  (For  this  I  am  not  a  Protestant.)  "  And 
elsewhere,  writing  of  his  childhood,  he  speaks  of  receiving  in 
the  cathedral  of  Guadix  all  his  first  impressions  of  artistic 
beauty,  —  beauty  of  architecture,  music,  painting,  proces- 
sional splendors,  tissue  of  gold  and  silver,  cunning  embroid- 
eries and  jewel-work,  his  first  sense,  in  short,  of  poetry. 
And  all  these  impressions  were  inextricably  blent  with  his 


In  Sight  of  the  Giralda  57 

first  yearnings  of  holy  aspiration,  his  first  passion  of  mystical 
devotion.  But  not  even  Seville  cathedral  could  win  over  our 
full  sympathy.  Too  heavy  were  the  faces  of  the  priests  who 
"  sang  the  gori  gori,"  too  selfish  that  wigged  and  jointed  doll, 
"  Our  Lady  of  Kings,"  with  her  sixty  gorgeous  mantles,  a  few 
of  which  would  have  clothed  all  the  poor  of  Andalusia. 
Who  shall  draw  the  line  between  faith  and  superstition  ? 

But  let  not  the  tourist  suppose  he  can  escape  his  tyrant 
Baedeker  even  at  the  top  of  the  Giralda.  There  are  excur- 
sions that  must  be  taken  to  points  of  interest  outside  the  city. 
Most  imperative  of  all  is  the  trip  to  the  ruined  Roman 
amphitheatre  of  Italica,  guarded  by  the  mighty  names  of 
Scipio  Africanus,  Trajan,  Hadrian,  and  Theodosius.  Off 
we  start,  a  dozen  strong,  in  a  great,  open  carriage,  all  the 
women-folk  with  fans  and  veils  and  with  flowers  in  the  hair. 
We  rattle  past  the  cathedral,  over  the  bridge  to  Triana  and 
out  into  the  sweet-breathed  country,  passing  many  a  pictu- 
resque group  on  the  road,  —  these  two  peasants,  for  example, 
with  their  yellow-handled  knives  thrust  into  scarlet  girdles, 
tossing  dice  under  a  fig  tree.  Our  meditations  among  the 
crumbling  blocks  of  that  savage  play-house  would  perhaps 
interest  the  reader  less  than  our  luncheon.  Such  Andalusian 
dainties  as  we  swallowed,  —  cold  soups  like  melted  salads, 
home-made  fig  marmalade,  cinnamon  pastes  of  which  the 
gypsies  know  the  secret,  and  sugared  chestnuts  overflowed 
by  a  marvellous  syrup  wherein  could  be  detected  flavors  of 
lemon  peel,  orange  peel,  and  a  medley  of  spices  !  In  that 
scene  of  ancient  bloodshed,  of  the  lion's  wrath  and  the  martyr's 
anguish,  we  ate,  drank,  and  were  merry,  but  our  banquet  tasted 
of  ghosts. 


VI 


PASSION    WEEK    IN    SEVILLE 

"All  that  was  gracious  was  bestowed  by  the  Virgin,  and  she  was  the  giver  of  all 
that  human  creatures  could  ask  for.  God  frowned,  while  she  smiled  ;  God  chastised, 
but  she  forgave ;  this  last  notion  was  by  no  means  a  strange  one.  It  is  accepted  with 
almost  absolute  faith  among  the  laboring  classes  of  the  rural  parts  of  Spain."  —  GALDOS  : 
Mariane/a. 

HOLY  Week   throngs   Seville  to  overflowing.     The 
devout    no    longer    scourge    themselves    in    public, 
sprinkling    the    pavements    with    their    blood,    but 
Spaniards   flock  from   all  Andalusia,  from   Madrid,  and  even 
from  the  northern  provinces  to  the  sunny  city  on  the  storied 
Guadalquivir.      Hotel  charges  run  from  twelve  dollars  a  day 
up  to  incredible  figures  ;   a  mere  bed  in  a  lodging  house  costs 
its   three   dollars,  four  dollars,   or   five   dollars   a   night,   and 
fortunate   are   those  who   enjoy  the   hospitality  of  a   private 
home. 

The  ceremonies  opened  Sunday  morning  with  the  proces- 
sion of  palms.  We  had  been  told  by  our  cathedral  guide  the 
day  before  that  this  procession  would  take  place  at  seven  or 
half-past  seven  at  the  latest,  and  had  asked  the  maid  to  call 
us  at  half-past  six.  As  the  chiming  bells  should  have  warned 
us,  her  knock  was  an  hour  tardy,  but  when,  breakfastless  and 
eager,  we  reached  the  cathedral  a  few  minutes  after  eight, 

58 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  59 

there  was  as  yet  no  sign  of  a  procession.  Mass  was  being 
said  in  the  Sagrario  and  in  several  chapels,  and  the  morning 
light  poured  in  through  the  rich-colored  windows  upon  groups 
of  kneeling  figures  before  every  shrine.  The  women  wore 
black  mantillas,  for,  although  this  most  graceful  of  head- 
dresses is  losing  credit  on  the  fashionable  promenades  of 
Seville,  and  is  almost  never  seen  in  open  carriages,  Holy 
Week  demands  it  of  all  the  faithful. 

We  asked  a  white-robed  young  chorister  when  the  proces- 
sion would  form.  He  answered  with  encouraging  precision, 
"  In  twenty  minutes."  We  roamed  about  for  a  half  hour  or 
more  through  those  majestic  spaces,  beneath  those  soaring 
arches,  aspiration  wrought  in  stone,  until  by  chance  in  that 
shifting  multitude  we  came  face  to  face  with  our  guide  of  the 
day  before.  We  asked  how  soon  the  procession  would  form. 
He  said,  "  In  twenty  minutes,"  and  we  went  home  for 
coffee. 

When  we  returned  the  procession  was  streaming  out  of  the 
cathedral  into  the  street  of  the  Gran  Capitan.  It  was  simple 
and  all  the  more  attractive  for  that  simplicity.  The  colors 
of  standards  and  vestments  were  mainly  purple  and  gold,  and 
the  long,  yellow  fronds  of  palm,  blown  by  the  fresh  breeze 
from  the  river,  gleamed  brighter  than  the  sheen  of  candle  or 
of  mitre.  Turning  the  corner,  the  procession,  now  facing 
the  beautiful  Giralda,  entered  by  the  ample  Door  of  Pardon, 
still  incrusted  with  its  Arabic  decorations,  into  the  Court  of 
Oranges,  whose  ripe  fruit  gave  new  touches  of  gold  to  the 
picture. 

Venders  of  palm  were  stationed  in  every  sheltered  corner, 
selling  their  wares,  more  than  twice  the  height  of  a  man,  at 


60  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

fifteen  cents  the  frond,  while  boys,  darting  about  with  armfuls 
of  olive,  were  glad  to  take  a  cent  the  branch,  and  not  have 
the  best  of  their  leafy  store  filched  from  them  by  sly  old 
women,  more  intent,  like  the  rest  of  us,  on  getting  a  blessing 
than  deserving  it. 

Through  the  multitude  the  glittering  palms  and  purple 
robes  swept  on  back  into  the  cathedral,  where  the  silent  and 
remote  archbishop,  an  image  of  gold  in  his  splendid  apparel, 
shed  his  benediction  not  only  over  the  proud  palms,  but  over 
every  spray  of  "  little  gray  leaves,"  like  those  of  Gethsemane. 
These  blessed  palms,  sprinkled  with  holy  water  and  wafting 
strange  fragrances  of  incense,  would  be  carried  home  and 
kept  in  myriad  balconies  all  the  year  through,  to  protect  the 
house  from  "  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone." 

That  Sunday  afternoon  at  five  o'clock  we  were  leaning  out 
expectantly  from  our  host's  best  balcony.  With  the  constant 
Spanish  courtesy,  he  had  betaken  himself,  with  the  children 
of  the  household,  to  a  less  commanding  balcony  below,  and 
his  eldest  son  had  considerately  withdrawn,  accompanied  by 
his  fiancee,  to  a  mere  speck  of  a  balcony  above.  This  left  a 
dozen  of  us,  Spanish,  English,  and  American,  to  enjoy  as 
good  a  view  as  the  city  afforded  of  the  processional  tableaux. 

The  oblong  Plaza  de  la  Constitution,  the  scene  in  days  gone 
by  of  many  a  tournament,  auto  de  fe,  and  bull-fight,  is  bounded 
on  one  side  by  the  ornate  Renaissance  facade  of  the  city  hall, 
and  on  the  other,  in  part,  by  the  plain  front  of  the  court- 
house, before  which  criminals  used  to  be  done  to  death.  Pri- 
vate dwellings,  with  their  tiers  of  balconies,  one  of  which  had 
fallen  to  our  happy  lot,  cross  the  wider  end  of  the  plaza^ 
while  the  other  opens  into  the  brilliant  street  of  Las  Sierpes^ 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  61 

too  narrow  for  carriages,  but  boasting  the  gayest  shop  windows 
and  merriest  cafes  of  all  the  town. 

The  plaza^  always  animated,  fairly  rippled  with  excitement 
this  Palm  Sunday  afternoon.  The  grand  stand,  erected  in 
front  of  the  city  hall,  was  filled,  although  many  of  the  camp- 
chairs  and  benches  placed  in  thick-set  rows  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  line  of  march  were  not  yet  rented.  Thursday  and 
Friday  are  the  days  that  draw  the  multitudes.  The  crowd 
was  bright  with  uniforms,  most  conspicuous  being  the  spruce 
white-edged,  three-cornered  hats  and  dark-blue,  red-faced  coats 
of  the  civil  guard.  Venders  of  peanuts,  peanut  candy,  maca- 
roons, caramels,  and  all  manner  of  dukes  swung  their  baskets 
from  one  sweet-toothed  Spaniard  to  another,  while  wisely  the 
water-seller  went  in  their  wake,  with  the  artistic  yellow  jar 
over  his  shoulder.  One  young  pedler  was  doing  a  flourish- 
ing business  in  crabs,  the  customers  receiving  these  delicacies 
in  outstretched  pocket  handkerchiefs. 

Busy  as  our  eyes  were  kept,  we  were  able  to  lend  ear 
to  the  explanations  of  our  Spanish  friends,  who  told  us  that 
the  church  dignitaries,  after  the  procession  of  palms,  took 
no  official  part  in  the  shows  of  Passion  Week,  although 
many  of  the  clergy  belonged,  as  individuals,  to  the  religious 
brotherhoods  concerned.  The  church  reserves  its  street  dis- 
plays for  Corpus  Christi.  These  brotherhoods,  societies  of 
ancient  origin,  and  connected  with  some  church  or  chapel, 
own  dramatic  properties  often  of  great  intrinsic  value  and 
considerable  antiquity. 

For  days  before  Holy  Week  one  may  see  the  members 
busy  in  the  churches  at  the  task  of  arranging  groups  of  sacred 
figures,  vested  as  richly  as  possible  in  garments  of  silk  and 


62  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

velvet,  with  ornaments  of  jewels  and  gold,  on  platforms  so 
heavy  that  twenty-five  men,  at  the  least,  are  needed  to  carry 
each.  These  litters  are  escorted  through  the  principal  streets 
and  squares  of  the  city  by  their  respective  societies,  each 
brotherhood  having  its  distinctive  dress.  It  is  customary  for 
every  cofradia  to  present  two  pageants  —  the  first  in  honor  of 
Christ ;  the  second,  and  more  important,  in  honor  of  Mary, 
to  whom  chivalrous  Spain  has  always  rendered  supreme  hom- 
age ;  but  sometimes  the  two  tableaux  are  combined  into  one. 

After  long  watching  and  waiting  we  saw,  far  down  Las 
Sierpes,  the  coming  of  the  first  procession.  A  line  of  police 
marched  in  advance  to  clear  the  road.  Then  appeared  a 
loosely  ordered  company  of  fantastic  figures  in  blue  capes 
and  blue  peaked  caps,  absurdly  high  and  reaching  down  to 
the  shoulder,  with  holes  cut  for  the  eyes.  From  beneath  the 
capes  flowed  white  frocks,  and  the  gloves  and  sandals  were 
white.  These  "  Nazarenes,"  who  looked  like  a  survival  of 
the  Carnival,  conducted  in  silence  a  litter  upon  which  was 
erected  an  image  of  the  crucified  Christ,  with  face  uplifted 
as  if  in  prayer. 

The  pageant  halted  before  the  doors  of  the  city  hall  to 
greet  the  Alcalde,  who  rose  from  his  red  velvet  chair  and 
bared  his  head.  Men  uncovered,  and  people  stood  all  along 
the  route,  but  acclamations  were  reserved  for  Our  Lady  of 
the  Star.  Her  attendant  troop  was  dressed  like  the  preceding, 
with  a  star  embroidered  in  white  on  the  shoulder  of  the  blue 
tunic.  Her  litter  was  ablaze  with  candles  and  laden  with 
flowers ;  her  outsweeping  train  was  upborne  by  four  little 
pages,  and  a  brass  band  followed  her  with  unceasing  music. 

Sunset  colors  were  in  the  sky  before  the  procession  of  the 


FILLING  THE  WATER-JARS 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  63 

second  brotherhood  arrived.  At  last,  far  down  the  Sierpes, 
the  dusk  was  dotted  with  the  gleam  of  many  tapers,  and  above 
these,  most  impressive  in  the  dim  distance,  glimmered  a  white 
figure  high  upon  the  cross.  As  the  pageant  drew  near,  waves 
of  incense  rolled  out  upon  the  air.  The  crash  of  trumpets 
and  deep  boom  of  drums  announced  that  Our  Lady  of  the 
Angels  was  advancing  upon  the  same  platform  with  her  Son, 
for  music  in  these  Passion  Week  processions  is  always  a  sign 
of  the  presence  of  the  Virgin.  The  brothers  of  this  retinue 
wore  black,  save  that  their  peaked  caps  were  purple. 

As  twilight  gathered,  a  company  of  strange  dark  shapes 
bore  past  in  solemn  hush  the  Most  Holy  Christ  of  the  Waters. 
The  Saviour  hung  upon  the  cross,  an  angel  receiving  in  a 
golden  cup  the  blood  from  his  wounded  side.  Then  her 
great  banner  of  white  and  blue  heralded  the  approach  of  Our 
Lady  of  the  Utter  Grief,  who  passed  with  her  accustomed 
pomp  of  lights  and  music,  holding  to  her  eyes  a  handkerchief 
said  to  be  of  the  most  exquisite  lace. 

Night  had  fallen  when,  at  eight  o'clock,  a  maid  left  on  vigil 
called  us  all  from  the  dinner  table  to  see  the  beautiful  proces- 
sion of  white-robed  figures  conducting  Our  Father  Jesus  of 
the  Silence.  The  figure  of  Christ,  resplendent  in  gold  and 
purple,  stood  before  Herod,  whose  mail-clad  soldiers  guarded 
the  prisoner.  The  Roman  costumes  were  so  well  copied, 
and  all  the  postures  and  groupings  so  startlingly  natural,  that 
vivas  went  up  all  along  the  crowded  square.  As  the  banner 
of  the  Virgin  saluted  the  Alcalde,  her  attendants  let  fall  their 
long  white  trains,  which  swept  out  quite  six  yards  behind, 
reaching  from  one  brother  to  the  next  and  yielding  a  wonder- 
fully fine  effect  in  the  slow  march.  Our  Lady  of  the  Bitter- 


64  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

ness,  toward  whom  leaned  the  tender  look  of  St.  John,  was 
robed  in  superb  brocade,  so  precious  that  her  train,  which 
stood  stiffly  out  behind,  was  guarded  by  a  soldier  with  drawn 
sword. 

This  closed  the  ceremonies  of  Palm  Sunday,  and  the 
throng,  catching  one  from  another  the  blithe,  sweet  Anda- 
lusian  melodies,  went  singing  softly  through  the  darkness  on 
their  various  ways. 

After  Palm  Sunday  a  secular  quiet  fell  upon  Seville,  not 
broken  until  Wednesday.  At  five  o'clock  this  March  after- 
noon it  was  still  so  hot  that  few  people  were  rash  enough  to 
move  about  without  the  shelter  of  parasols.  Sevillian  priests, 
sombre-robed  as  they  were,  sauntered  cheerily  across  the  plaza 
under  sunshades  of  the  gayest  hues,  orange,  green,  azure,  red, 
and  usually  all  at  once,  but  the  shamefaced  Englishmen 
flapped  up  broad  umbrellas  of  an  uncompromising  black. 
There  was  a  breezy  flutter  of  fans  on  the  grand  stand,  the 
water-sellers  had  to  fill  their  jars  again  and  again,  and  the 
multitude  of  smokers,  puffing  at  their  paper  cigarettes  to  cool 
themselves,  really  brought  on  a  premature  twilight. 

It  was  nearly  seven  before  a  score  of  gendarmes,  marching 
abreast,  cleared  the  way  for  the  procession.  Then  appeared, 
in  the  usual  guise,  some  twenty  feet  apart,  two  files  of  those 
strange  shapes,  with  high,  peaked  caps,  whose  visors  descended 
to  the  breast,  slowly  advancing,  with  an  interval  of  about  six 
feet  from  man  to  man.  Their  caps  and  frocks  were  black, 
but  the  long  capes  glowed  a  vivid  red.  They  carried  the 
customary  lighted  tapers,  so  tall  that,  when  rested  on  the 
ground,  they  reach  to  the  shoulder.  Midway  between 
the  files  walked  a  cross-bearer,  followed  by  a  Nazarene,  who 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  65 

uplifted  the  standard  of  St.  Andrew's  Cross  in  red  on  a  black 
ground.  Bearers  of  other  insignia  of  the  order  preceded  the 
great  litter,  on  which,  under  a  golden  palm  tree,  was  repre- 
sented by  life-size  effigies  the  arrest  of  Christ  among  His 
Disciples,  St.  Andrew  having  the  foremost  place.  The 
second  pageant  presented  by  this  brotherhood  was  accom- 
panied by  bevies  of  white-robed  boys  swinging  censers  and 
chanting  anthems.  Then  came,  in  effulgence  of  light,  the 
Most  Holy  Virgin,  escorted,  as  if  she  were  the  earthly  Queen 
of  Spain,  by  a  detachment  of  the  Civil  Guard,  whose  white 
trimmings  and  gold  belts  gleamed  in  the  candle  rays. 

The  remaining  three  cofradias  that  had  part  in  the  Wednes- 
day ceremonies  exhibited  but  one  pageant  each.  A  troop 
in  black  and  gold  conducted  a  Calvary,  with  Mary  Mother 
and  Mary  Magdalene  both  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  cross, 
robed  in  the  richest  velvet.  Figures  in  white,  with  stripes  of 
red,  came  after,  with  a  yet  more  costly  Calvary.  The  well- 
carved  crucifix  rose  from  a  gilded  mound,  and  Our  Mother 
of  Healing  wore  a  gold  crown  of  exceeding  price.  But  the 
third  Calvary,  all  wrought  in  black  and  gold,  the  colors  of 
the  brotherhood,  which  were  repeated  in  standard  and 
costume,  won  the  plaudits  of  the  evening.  Here  Longinus, 
the  Roman  centurion,  mounted  on  a  spirited  horse,  was  in  the 
act  of  piercing  with  his  lance  the  Saviour's  side.  Amid  vivas 
and  bravos  this  Passion  picture  passed,  like  its  predecessors, 
in  clouds  of  incense  and  peals  of  solemn  music. 

On  Thursday  the  wearing  of  black  was  almost  universal. 
We  rummaged  our  shawl  straps  for  some  poor  equivalent  of 
the  Spanish  black  silks  and  black  mantillas.  The  Civil 
Guard  was  more  superb  than  ever  in  full-dress  uniform,  with 


66  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

red  vests  and  white  trousers.  No  sound  of  wheels  was 
suffered  within  the  city  limits,  and  late  arrivals  had  to 
commit  their  luggage  to  a  porter  and  follow  him  on  foot. 

At  three  o'clock,  in  the  Sagrario  of  the  cathedral,  the  arch- 
bishop washed  the  feet  of  thirteen  old  paupers,  who  sat  in 
two  confronting  rows,  looking  neat  as  wax  and  happy  as 
honey,  each  dressed  in  a  brand-new  suit,  with  a  long-fringed 
ciamask  towel  over  his  shoulder.  Their  old  blood  had  been 
warmed  by  the  archbishop's  own  wine,  for  they  had  just 
come  from  luncheon  in  the  ecclesiastical  palace,  where  they 
had  been  served  by  the  highest  dignitaries  of  the  church  and 
the  proudest  nobles  of  the  city.  The  function  of  foot  wash- 
ing was  not  taken  too  seriously.  The  fat  canons  smiled 
good-humoredly  on  their  archbishop,  as  his  group  of  attend- 
ants lowered  him  to  his  knees  and  lifted  him  again  before 
every  old  man  in  turn,  and  the  acolytes  nudged  one  another 
with  boyish  mirth  over  the  rheumatic,  embarrassed  efforts  of 
the  beneficiaries  to  put  on  their  stockings. 

A  Franciscan  friar  mounted  the  pulpit,  however,  and 
turned  the  congregation,  thickly  sprinkled  with  English 
visitors,  serious  enough  by  a  succinct  and  fiery  sermon,  say- 
ing, in  a  nutshell,  that  love  is  the  glory  of  the  religious  life, 
but  is  the  fruit  only  of  Catholicism,  for  nowhere,  though  one 
searches  the  world  over,  can  there  be  found  a  work  of  mercy 
—  hospital,  asylum,  endowed  school,  charity  of  any  sort  or 
kind  —  due  to  Protestantism.  And  the  old  paupers,  glancing 
down  at  their  new  suits  and  feeling  the  glow  of  their  banquet, 
were  glad  to  the  tips  of  their  purified  toes  that  their  lots  had 
been  cast  in  Catholic  Spain. 

By  six  o'clock  the  squares  and  streets  along  the    proces- 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  67 

sional  route  were  thronged  again,  although  our  Spanish 
friends  assured  us  that  the  numbers  were  less  than  usual. 
The  war  feeling  kept  the  Americans  and,  to  some  extent,  the 
English  away,  while  many  of  the  Spanish  of  the  provinces, 
who  were  accustomed  to  take  their  annual  outing  in  Seville 
during  the  Semana  Santa,  were  held  at  home  this  year  by 
poverty  or  mourning. 

The  first  two  pageants  of  the  afternoon,  those  of  the  bull- 
fighters and  the  cigarette-makers,  were  awaited  with  especial 
eagerness.  For  these  Seville  brotherhoods,  more  than  thirty 
in  all,  still  maintain  something  of  the  mediaeval  structure  of 
the  guilds.  Just  as  in  England  and  France,  from  the 
eleventh  to  the  fifteenth  century,  or  thereabouts,  organized 
companies  of  craftsmen  used  to  present  in  Passion  Week 
successive  scenes  from  the  life  of  Christ,  these  Spanish 
cofradias  to-day  maintain  such  general  lines  of  division  in 
performing  a  similar  function.  Yet  any  Catholic  Sevillian 
may,  if  he  chooses,  secure  admission  to  any  of  these  societies, 
irrespective  of  his  occupation.  The  young  caballero  who 
chanced  to  be  our  prime  source  of  information  this  Thursday 
afternoon  was  himself  of  a  prominent  family,  a  protege  of 
the  archbishop,  and  a  student  of  law,  yet  he  belonged  to  the 
brotherhood  of  Fruit  Venders,  although  his  devotion  seemed  a 
little  languid,  and  he  had  excused  himself  on  this  occasion 
from  the  long  march  in  the  breathless  Nazarene  garb. 

Not  all  the  brothers  feel  bound  to  perform  this  penitential 
service  every  Passion  Week,  and,  indeed,  not  all  the  brother- 
hoods. Several  of  the  most  elaborate  pageants  were  missing 
from  the  ranks  this  year.  Such  omissions  are  not  as  dis- 
astrous to  the  processional  effect  as  they  would  have  been  in 


68  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

England,  for  example,  some  six  centuries  ago.  Then  the 
gilded  and  tapestried  platforms,  set  on  wheels,  which  the 
processions  conducted  through  the  streets,  were  really  stages, 
and  at  the  halting  places  the  best  actors  of  each  guild  played 
upon  its  particular  platform  an  appointed  scene  from  the 
sacred  drama.  The  sequence  of  events  was  duly  observed, 
and  the  spectator,  standing  in  market-place  or  at  street  corner, 
while  one  theatre  after  another  rolled  by  him,  saw  acted  out 
with  much  finery  of  wardrobe  and  ingenuity  of  machinery, 
with  tragic  dialogue  and  declamation,  relieved  by  comic  inter- 
ludes, all  the  Bible  story,  from  the  revolt  of  Lucifer  to  the 
Day  of  Judgment.  But  modern  Spain,  abandoning  the  act- 
ing and  recitation  and  substituting  puppets  for  living  men, 
has  let  slip  the  dramatic  sequence,  so  that  a  few  pageants  less 
means  only  so  much  abatement  in  the  general  splendor  of  the 
spectacle. 

The  bull-fighters  of  Andalusia  are  eminently  religious  and 
are  said,  likewise,  to  be  remarkable  for  their  domestic  virtues. 
All  their  manly  fury  is  launched  against  the  bull,  and  they 
have  only  gentleness  left  for  wives  and  children.  I  have 
heard  no  better  argument  for  the  bull  ring.  At  all  events, 
these  toreros^  marching  soberly  in  black,  with  yellow  belts, 
escorted  with  well-ordered  solemnity  an  image  of  the  cruci- 
fied Christ,  followed  by  a  queenly  effigy  of  Our  Lady  of 
Refuge,  erect  behind  terraced  ranks  of  candles  on  a  flower- 
strewn  litter,  under  a  costly  canopy  of  black  velvet  embroid- 
ered with  gold.  The  cigarette-makers  came  after  with  their 
two  pageants,  Christ  fastened  to  the  pillar,  and  Our  Lady  of 
Victory. 

It  was,  as  usual,  the  second  upon  which  the  main  expense 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  69 

had  been  lavished.  A  great  company  of  acolytes,  richly  clad 
and  swinging  censers  of  pure  silver,  went  in  advance  of  the 
Virgin,  and  three  bands  of  music  followed  her  with  continu- 
ous acclaim,  while  a  regiment  of  soldiers  attended  as  a  guard 
of  honor.  Immediately  in  front  of  the  paso  went,  surrounded 
by  officers  and  aides,  General  Ochando,  his  head  uncovered 
and  his  breast  glittering  with  decorations,  for  the  young  king 
of  Spain  is  a  member  of  this  cofradia,  and  had  sent  the  dis- 
tinguished military  governor  of  the  Provinces,  who  has  a  palace 
in  Seville,  to  represent  him.  Especial  enthusiasm  was  called 
out  by  this  image  of  Mary,  for  the  cigarette-makers  had  just 
presented  her  with  a  new  mantle  at  a  cost  of  nine  thousand 
dollars.  The  brothers  were  willingly  aided  by  the  seven 
thousand  women  who  work  in  the  immense  tobacco  factory, 
the  average  contribution  of  each  donor  being  two  centlmos 
(two-fifths  of  a  cent)  a  week  during  the  preceding  year.  No 
wonder  that  the  Virgin  seemed  to  stand  proudly  upon  her  sil- 
vered pedestal,  her  gorgeous  new  mantle  streaming  out  until 
it  almost  touched  the  head  of  a  white-vested  girl  who  walked 
barefoot  close  behind  the  litter,  so  fulfilling  a  vow  made  in 
extremity  of  illness. 

Black  and  white  were  the  banners  and  costumes  of  the 
third  procession,  very  effective  through  the  deepening  dusk. 
Their  leading  pageant  was  a  Gethsemane,  famous  for  the 
beauty  of  the  carving.  Christ  is  represented  in  prayer  before 
an  angel,  who  bears  in  one  hand  the  cross  and  in  the  other 
the  cup  of  bitterness,  while  Peter,  James,  and  John  are  sleep- 
ing near  their  Master.  These  Passion  groups  are,  with  a  few 
exceptions  of  still  earlier  date,  works  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, the  glorious  period  of  Spanish  art,  the  day  of  Murillo  and 


yo  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

Velazquez.  The  most  and  best  are  from  the  hand  of  the 
Sevillian  Montanes,  of  chief  repute  in  the  Spanish  school  of 
polychrome  sculpture,  but  this  Gethsemane  was  carved  by  his 
imitator,  Roldan,  whose  daughter,  La  Roldana,  is  accredited 
with  the  figure  of  the  angel  and  with  the  reliefs  that  adorn  the 
pedestal. 

Another  Virgin,  who,  like  all  the  rest,  seemed  a  scintillation 
of  gold  and  jewels,  swept  by,  and  a  new  troop  of  Nazarenes, 
this  time  in  purple  and  white,  passed  with  two  august  pageants, 
—  the  Descent  from  the  Cross  and  the  Fifth  Anguish  of  Mary. 
Then  came  two  files  of  ash-colored  figures,  who  marshalled, 
between  their  rows  of  starry  tapers,  each  taper  bending  toward 
its  opposite,  a  vivid  presentation  of  the  Crowning  with  Thorns; 
and,  after  this,  their  Mary  of  the  Valley,  noted  for  the  gracious 
sweetness  of  her  countenance.  This  image  is  held  to  be  one 
of  Montaiies's  masterpieces  in  wood-carving. 

Five  processions  had  now  passed,  with  their  two  pageants 
each,  and  the  hour  was  late,  but  we  could  not  leave  the  bal- 
cony for  anything  so  commonplace  as  dinner.  Far  down  the 
street  of  Las  Sierpes  waved  a  river  of  lights,  announcing  the 
advent  of  the  most  ancient  of  all  the  Sevillian  brotherhoods, 
Jesus  of  the  Passion.  The  crowded  plaza  rose  in  reverence 
as  the  Crucifixion  paso  was  borne  by,  and  Our  Lady  of  Mercy, 
too  magnificent  for  her  name,  was  greeted  with  rapturous  out- 
cries. 

Just  how  and  when  and  where  something  in  the  way 
of  food  was  taken,  I  hardly  know,  but  as  this,  the  last  of 
the  Thursday  evening  processions,  passed  in  music  out  of  the 
plaza,  a  few  of  us  made  speed  by  a  deserted  side  street  to  the 
cathedral.  We  were  too  late  for  the  Miserere,  which  was  just 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  71 

closing  in  that  surprising  hubbub,  the  stamping  of  feet  and 
beating  of  canes  and  chairs  against  the  floor,  by  which  Spanish 
piety  is  wont  to  *'  punish  Judas."  But  we  took  our  station 
near  by  the  entrance  to  the  Royal  Chapel,  wherein  had  been 
erected  the  grand  Holy  Week  monument,  in  white  and  gold, 
shaped  like  a  temple,  and  shining  with  innumerable  silver 
lamps  and  taper  lights.  Within  this  monument  the  Host, 
commonly  spoken  of  in  Spain  as  Su  Majestad,  had  been  sol- 
emnly placed  the  night  before,  much  as  the  mediaeval  church 
used  to  lay  the  crucifix,  with  requiems,  under  the  High  Altar 
on  Good  Friday,  and  joyously  bring  it  forth  again  Easter 
morning.  But  Spanish  Catholicism  is  strangely  indifferent  to 
dates,  burying  the  Host  on  Wednesday  and  celebrating  the 
Resurrection  Saturday. 

All  day  long  the  Royal  Chapel  had  been  filled  with  relays 
upon  relays  of  kneeling  worshippers,  and  the  hush  there  had 
been  so  profound  that  the  hum  of  the  tourist-haunted  nave 
and  the  tumult  of  the  streets  seemed  faint  and  foreign  to  the 
hearing,  like  sounds  a  universe  away.  Before  this  chapel 
entrance  all  the  pageants,  as  they  were  borne  in  silence 
through  the  cathedral,  paused  and  did  homage  to  the  Host. 
Having  outstripped  the  procession,  we  had  arrived  in  season 
to  witness  three  of  these  salutations.  The  Nazarenes,  in 
passing,  fell  upon  their  knees  in  the  light  of  the  great,  gleam- 
ing monument,  and  each  of  the  heavy  platforms  was  slowly 
swung  about  so  that  it  faced  this  symbol  of  Christ's 
sepulchre. 

Yet  there  was  something  besides  devotion  in  the  cathedral. 
As  the  crowd  pressed  close,  we  felt,  more  than  once,  a  fum- 
bling at  our  pockets,  and  the  little  artist  lost  her  purse.  The 


72  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

rest  of  us  comforted  her  by  saying  over  and  over  that  she 
ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  bring  it,  and  by  severally 
relating  how  cautious  we  had  been  on  our  own  accounts. 

It  was  hard  upon  eleven  when  we  returned  to  the  house, 
but  the  streets  were  all  alive  with  people.  I  went  to  the  bal- 
cony at  midnight,  and  again  at  the  stroke  of  one,  and  both 
times  looked  down  upon  a  plaza  crossed  and  recrossed  in  all 
directions  by  talkative,  eager  groups.  Many  of  these  restless 
promenaders  had  been  able  to  get  no  lodgings,  and  were  walk- 
ing to  keep  warm.  The  pressure  upon  the  hotels  was  so 
great  that  one  desperate  stranger  this  Thursday  night  paid 
twenty  dollars  for  a  cot  from  ten  o'clock  till  two,  and  private 
hospitality  was  taxed  to  a  degree  that  nothing  but  Spanish 
courtesy  and  good-nature  could  ever  have  endured.  In  the 
house  which  harbored  us,  for  instance,  we  were  all  fitted  in 
as  compactly  as  the  pieces  of  a  puzzle,  when  the  unexpected 
friends  began  to  arrive. 

On  Wednesday  there  appeared  from  the  far  north  a  man 
and  wife,  acquaintances  of  ten  years  back.  Our  host  and 
hostess  greeted  this  surprise  party  with  Andalusian  sunshine 
in  their  faces,  and  yielded  up  their  own  room.  Thursday 
morning  there  walked  gayly  in  one  of  the  son's  university 
classmates  from  Madrid.  Don  Pepe  embraced  him  like  a 
brother,  and  surrendered  the  sofa,  which  was  all  he  had  left  to 
give.  And  this  Thursday  midnight,  as  a  crowning  touch, 
three  more  chums  of  college  days  came  clattering  at  the  bell. 
Their  welcome  was  as  cordial  as  if  the  household  were  pining 
for  society.  The  tired  maids,  laughing  gleefully  over  the 
predicament,  contributed  their  own  mattresses  and  pillows, 
and  made  up  beds  on  the  study  floor,  where  Don  Pepe  camped 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  73 

out  with  his  comrades,  to  rise  with  a  headache  that  lasted  for 
days  after. 

By  two  o'clock  I  had  taken  my  station  on  the  balcony  for 
an  all-night  vigil.  The  most  of  the  family  bore  me  company 
for  the  cogent  reason  that  they  had  nowhere  to  sleep,  but  the 
other  guests  of  the  house  held  out  for  only  an  hour  or  two, 
and  then  went  blinking  to  their  repose.  My  memory  of  the 
night  is  strangely  divided  between  the  dreamlike,  unearthly 
pomps  and  splendors  streaming  through  the  square  below  and 
the  kindly,  cheery  people  who  came  and  went  about  me.  The 
senora,  still  fresh  and  charming,  although  she  has  wept  the 
deaths  of  fourteen  out  of  her  nineteen  children,  was  merrily 
relating,  with  weary  head  against  her  husband's  shoulder,  her 
almost  insuperable  difficulties  in  the  way  of  furnishing  her 
table.  The  milkman  roundly  declared  that  if  she  wanted  a 
double  quantity  of  the  precious  fluid  (and  goat's  milk  at  that), 
she  must  make  it  up  with  water.  There  was  no  meat  to  be 
had  in  the  Catholic  city  during  these  holy  days,  and  even  her 
baker  had  forsaken  his  oven  and  gone  off  to  see  the  sights. 
And  the  black-bearded  senor,  who,  like  his  wife,  had  not  been 
in  bed  for  forty  odd  hours,  laughed  at  her  and  comforted  her, 
puffed  harder  than  ever  at  his  cigarette,  and  roguishly  quoted 
the  saying,  "  He  whom  God  loves  has  a  house  in  Seville." 

By  two  o'clock  the  seats  on  the  grand  stand  were  filling 
fast,  the  plaza  hummed  with  excitement,  the  balconies  re- 
sounded with  song  and  laughter,  and  the  strong  electric  lights 
in  front  of  the  city  hall  cast  a  hard,  white  brilliance  over  all 
the  scene.  The  frying  of  calientes,  an  Andalusian  version  of 
twisted  doughnuts,  was  in  savory  progress  here  and  there  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  throng,  and  our  ever  thoughtful  hostess 


74  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

did  not  fail  to  keep  her  balcony  well  supplied  with  these 
crisp  dainties. 

The  twinkling  of  taper  lights,  so  warm  and  yellow  under 
those  pallid  globes  of  electric  glare,  appeared  while  people 
were  still  hurrying  to  their  places ;  but  hundreds  upon  hun- 
dreds of  black  and  gold  figures  had  paced  by  before  the  first 
of  their  pasos  came  into  view.  For  these  processions  of  the 
dawn,  de  madrugada,  call  out  great  numbers  of  the  devout, 
who  would  thus  keep  the  last  watch  with  their  Lord.  The 
clocks  struck  three  as  the  leading  pageant,  a  very  ancient 
image  of  Christ,  bearing  a  silver-mounted  cross  of  tortoise- 
shell,  halted  before  the  Alcalde.  A  white  banner  wrought 
with  gold  heralded  the  Virgin,  who  rose,  in  glistening  attire, 
from  a  golden  lake  of  lights. 

The  wealthy  cof radio  of  San  Lorenzo  followed  in  their 
costly  habits  of  black  velvet.  They,  too,  conducted  a 
pageant  of  Christ  bearing  His  cross,  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful groups  of  Montanes,  the  pedestal  adorned  with  angels  in 
relief.  To  the  Christ,  falling  on  the  Via  Dolorosa,  the 
brotherhood,  with  the  usual  disregard  of  historic  propriety, 
had  given  a  royal  mantle  of  ermine,  embroidered  with  gold  and 
pearls.  A  large  company  of  black-clad  women,  carrying 
candles,  walked  behind  the  paso,  on  their  penitential  march 
of  some  eight  hours.  Many  of  them  were  ladies  delicately 
bred,  whose  diamonds  sparkled  on  the  breast  of  the  approach- 
ing Mary.  For  the  Sevillian  senoras  are  accustomed  to  lend 
their  most  valuable  gems  to  their  favorite  Virgins  for  the 
Semana  Santa,  and  San  Lorenzo's  Lady  of  Grief  is  said  to 
have  worn  this  night  the  worth  of  millions.  She  passed  amid 
a  great  attendant  throng,  in  such  clouds  of  incense  that  the 


Passion  Week  in   Seville  75 

eye  could  barely  catch  the  shimmer  of  her  silver  pedestal,  the 
gleam  of  the  golden  broideries  that  almost  hid  the  velvet  of 
her  mantle,  and  the  flashes  and  jets  of  light  that  shot  from 
the  incredible  treasure  of  jewels  that  she  wore. 

The  third  troop  of  Nazarenes,  robed  in  white  and  violet, 
bore  for  banner  a  white  cross  upon  a  violet  ground.  Their 
Christ-pageant  pictured  Pilate  in  his  judgment  seat  in  the  act 
of  condemning  the  Son  of  God  to  death.  Jesus,  guarded  by 
armed  soldiers,  calmly  confronts  the  troubled  judge,  at  whose 
knee  wait  two  little  pages  with  a  basin  of  water  and  towels. 

And  now  came  one  of  the  most  gorgeous  features  of  the 
Holy  Week  processions  —  a  legion  of  Roman  soldiers,  attired 
as  never  Roman  soldiers  were,  in  gold  greaves  and  crimson 
tunics,  with  towering  snow-white  plumes.  But  a  splendid  show 
they  made  as,  marching  to  drum  and  fife,  they  filed  down  Las 
Sierpes  and  stretched  "  in  never  ending  line"  across  the  plaza. 
Our  most  Holy  Mary  of  Hope,  who  followed,  wearing  a  fair 
white  tunic  and  a  gold-embroidered  mantle  of  green,  the  color 
of  the  hopeful  season,  drowned  the  memory  of  that  stern 
military  music  in  a  silver  concert  of  flutes. 

After  this  sumptuous  display,  the  fourth  band  of  Nazarenes, 
gliding  through  the  plaza  between  night  and  day  in  their  garb 
of  black  and  white,  could  arouse  but  little  enthusiasm,  although 
their  Crucifixion  was  one  of  the  most  artistic,  and  their 
Lady  of  the  Presentation  had  her  poorest  garment  of  fine 
satin. 

A  pearly  lustre  was  stealing  through  the  sky,  and  the  chill 
in  the  air  was  thinning  the  rows  of  spectators  on  the  grand 
stand,  when  mysterious,  dim-white  shapes,  like  ghosts,  bore 
by  in  utter  silence  a  pageant  of  Christ  fainting  beneath  the 


j6  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

burden  of  the  cross.  But  soon  the  clamor  of  drums  and  fifes 
ushered  in  another  long  array  of  Roman  soldiers,  a  rainbow 
host  in  red  and  pink  and  blue,  crimson  plumes  alternating 
with  white,  and  golden  shields  with  silver.  The  electric 
lights,  globed  high  overhead,  took  one  look  at  this  fantastic 
cavalcade  and  went  out  with  a  gasp. 

It  was  now  clear  day.  Canaries  began  to  sing  in  their 
cages,  and  parrots  to  scream  for  chocolate.  Sleepy-eyed  ser- 
vant-maids appeared  on  the  balconies,  and  market  women, 
leading  green-laden  donkeys,  peered  forth  from  the  side  steets 
into  the  square.  The  morning  light  made  havoc  with  the 
glamour  of  the  pageants.  Something  frank  and  practical  in 
the  sunshine  stripped  those  candle-lighted  litters  of  their  dig- 
nity. Busy  people  dodged  through  the  procession  lines,  and 
one  Nazarene  after  another  might  be  seen  slipping  out  of  the 
ranks  and  hurrying  awkwardly,  in  his  cumbersome  dress,  with 
the  half-burned  taper  under  his  arm,  to  the  refuge  of  his 
own  mosquito-netting  and  orange  tree.  The  tired  crowd  grew 
critical  and  irreverent,  and  openly  railed  upon  the  Virgin  of 
this  ghostly  cofradia  because  her  velvet  mantle  was  compara- 
tively plain.  "  Bah  !  how  poor  it  is  !  Are  we  to  sit  here  all 
the  night  for  such  stingy  shows  as  that  ?  " 

But  the  last  brotherhood  in  the  madrugada  processions  had, 
with  their  white  frocks  and  blue  caps  and  capes,  suited  them- 
selves to  the  colors  of  the  day.  The  stumbling  children, 
blind  with  sleep,  whom  fathers  were  already  leading  off  the 
square,  turned  back  for  a  drowsy  gaze  at  the  resplendent  tunic 
of  the  Christ  in  the  Via  Dolorosa  paso,  a  tunic  claimed  to  be 
the  richest  of  all  the  garments  worn  by  the  effigies  of  Jesus. 
So  lovely  was  this  trooping  company  in  their  tints  of  sky  and 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  77 

cloud,  bearing  a  great  blue  banner  and  a  shining  ivory  cross, 
that  they  brought  order  and  decorum  with  them. 

The  division  'that  escorted  the  Virgin  marched  on  with 
especial  steadiness,  not  a  peaked  cap  drooping,  nor  a  boyish 
acolyte  faltering  under  the  weight  of  his  tall  gilded  censer. 
This  most  Holy  Mary  of  Anguish,  whose  litter  and  canopy 
were  all  of  white  and  gold,  swept  by  in  triumphal  peals  of 
music  while  the  clocks  were  striking  six.  In  some  mental 
confusion,  I  said  good  night  to  the  people  I  left  on  the  balcony, 
and  good  morning  to  the  people  I  met  on  the  stairs,  and  ate 
my  breakfast  before  I  went  to  bed. 

It  seemed  as  if  human  nature  could  bear  no  more ;  the  eyes 
ached  with  seeing,  and  phantasmal  processions  went  sweeping 
through  our  dreams ;  yet  Friday  afternoon  at  five  o'clock 
found  our  balcony,  like  all  the  rest,  full  to  overflowing. 
Some  twenty  thousand  people  were  massed  in  the  plaza,  and  it 
was  estimated  that  over  one  hundred  thousand  waited  along 
the  line  of  march.  Our  Spanish  entertainers,  still  unrefreshed 
by  any  chance  for  sleep,  were  as  gayly  and  punctiliously  atten- 
tive to  their  guests  as  ever,  from  our  gallant  host,  who  pre- 
sented the  ladies  with  fragrant  bouquets  of  roses  and  orange 
blossoms,  to  the  little  pet  of  the  household,  who  at  the  most 
engrossing  moments  in  the  ceremonial  would  slip  away  from 
her  privileged  stand  on  a  footstool  against  the  railing  to 
summon  any  member  of  the  party  who  might  be  missing  the 
spectacle. 

The  Spanish  colors  floated  out  from  city  hall  and  court- 
house, but  the  great  concourse  below  was  all  in  hues  of 
mourning,  the  black  mantillas  often  falling  over  dresses  of 
plain  purple.  The  sefioritas  in  the  balconies  had  substituted 


78  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

knots  of  black  ribbon  for  the  customary  flowers  in  the  hair. 
Jet  trimmings  abounded,  and  the  waving  fans  were  black. 

The  coming  procession,  we  were  assured  on  every  hand, 
would  be  the  most  solemn  of  all  and  the  most  sumptuous. 
The  habits  of  the  Nazarenes  would  be  of  satin,  silk,  and  vel- 
vet. The  images  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin  would  be  attired 
with  all  possible  magnificence  of  damask  and  ermine,  gold 
and  jewels.  Brotherhood  would  vie  with  brotherhood  in 
splendor,  and  one  prodigy  of  luxury  would  succeed  another. 

The  leading  company,  whose  far-trailing  robes  carpeted  the 
street  with  fine  black  velvet,  stood  for  the  olive  industry. 
This  cofradia  had  been  poor  and  unimportant  for  generations, 
but  in  recent  years  a  devoted  brother,  a  manufacturer  of  olive 
packing-barrels,  had  poured  forth  his  accumulated  fortune 
upon  the  society,  with  the  result  that  their  pasos  are  now 
second  in  ostentation  and  expense  to  none.  The  donor,  long 
since  too  feeble  to  bear  his  taper  in  the  line,  lives  in  humble 
obscurity,  but  his  old  heart  swells  with  joy  this  great  day  of 
the  year  when  he  sees,  following  the  elaborate  carving  of  the 
Crucifixion,  the  dazzling  chariot  of  Our  Lady  of  Solitude. 
Upon  her  mantle,  which  enjoys  the  proud  distinction  of  being 
the  very  costliest  of  all,  he  has  lavished  twenty  thousand  dol- 
lars. Longer  by  a  yard  than  any  of  the  others,  it  was  yet  un- 
able to  find  place  for  all  the  gold  which  the  zealous  Nazarene 
had  given  for  it,  and  the  residue  was  bestowed  about  the  pedestal 
and  canopy.  The  paso  is  so  heavy  with  gold  that  it  requires 
a  double  force  of  men  to  carry  it ;  but  each  of  these  hidden 
bearers,  getting  air  as  best  he  can  through  a  silver  breathing- 
tube,  is  sure  of  a  dollar  for  his  recompense  as  well  as  two 
glasses  of  good  wine. 


GRANADA.      LOOKING  TOWARD  THE  DARRO 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  79 

All  the  adornment  of  the  litter  is  of  pure  gold,  and  such 
wealth  of  jewels  glinted  from  the  Virgin's  glorious  raiment 
that  a  triple  force  of  Civil  Guards  was  detailed  for  her  pro- 
tection. Her  ardent  worshipper  has  denied  her  nothing. 
The  very  columns  that  uphold  her  canopy  are  exquisite  in 
carving,  and  it  is  his  yearly  pride  to  see  that  her  clouds  of 
incense  are  the  thickest,  and  her  train  of  musicians  the  most 
extended,  in  all  that  glittering  line. 

The  second  cofradia  exhibited  but  a  single  pageant,  relying 
for  effect  upon  the  beauty  of  the  sculpture.  The  Mater  Dolo- 
rosa  was  bowed  in  her  desolation  at  the  foot  of  the  Holy  Rood, 
from  which  hung  only  the  white  folds  of  the  winding-sheet. 

But  the  third  brotherhood  had  bethought  themselves  to 
introduce,  between  their  austere  Crucifixion  and  their  shining 
image  of  Mary,  another  preposterous  parade  of  Roman  sol- 
diers—  flower-colored,  plume-tossing,  butterfly  creatures  far 
too  bright,  if  not  too  good,  u  for  human  nature's  daily  food." 
One  whiff  from  Caesar's  iron  breast  would  have  blown  them 
away  like  soap  bubbles. 

The  silversmiths  trooped  by  in  graver,  more  majestic  state, 
their  purple  velvet  habits  girded  with  gold  cords.  Upon  a 
gilded  pedestal,  wrought  with  high  relief,  was  seen  their 
Christ,  bowed  beneath  a  precious  cross  of  tortoise-shell  and 
silver.  Our  Lady  of  Expectation  gleamed  with  gold  and  gems, 
and  this  haughty  brotherhood  received  a  full  meed  of  applause. 

Black  from  top  to  toe  was  the  fifth  procession.  Their 
Jesus  of  the  Via  Dolorosa  bent  beneath  a  sombre  cross  of 
ebony  embossed  with  gold,  but  the  blithe  young  voices  of  the 
countless  choir-boys,  singing  like  birds  before  the  dawn,  ush- 
ered in  a  sun-bright  image  of  Mary. 


8o  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Hut  something  was  amiss  with  the  processional  order. 
Where  were  the  stately  ranks  of  Montserrat  ?  Alas  and 
alas  !  Scarcely  had  this  aristocratic  cofradia  gone  a  hundred 
paces  from  their  chapel  when,  in  the  narrow  &treet  of  Murillo, 
a  leaning  candle  touched  the  lace  skirt  of  the  Virgin  and 
instantly  all  the  front  of  the  litter  was  in  flames.  It  was 
hardly  a  matter  of  minutes.  From  the  balconies  above  were 
dashed  down  pailfuls  and  pitcherfuls  of  water.  The  Naza- 
renes,  wrenching  away  the  blue  velvet  mantle  wondrously 
embroidered  in  gold  with  castles,  lions,  and  fours  de  //V,  suc- 
ceeded in  rescuing  a  ragged  half  of  it,  and  the  Civil  Guards, 
drawing  their  swords  and  forming  a  circle  about  the  smoking 
litter,  saved  the  jewels  from  robbery.  Perhaps  the  other 
paso,  too,  Christ  of  the  Conversion  of  the  Penitent  Thief, 
had  some  protecting  influence.  But  in  all  this  ado  about  her 
finery,  the  poor  Virgin's  face,  beloved  for  its  winsome  look, 
was  completely  burned  away.  In  sorry  plight  Our  Lady  of 
Montserrat  was  hurried  back  to  her  chapel,  and  the  swift  rumor 
of  the  disaster  sent  a  superstitious  trouble  through  the  city. 

But  more  and  more  solemnly  the  taper-bearing  troops  of 
Nazarenes  poured  by  with  the  culminating  pictures  of  the 
Passion.  These  last  three  cofradias  presented  each  a  single 
pageant.  An  escort  in  dark  purple  conducted  an  impressive 
Descent  from  the  Cross.  The  Virgin,  her  crowned  head 
bowed  in  anguish,  clasps  the  drooping  body  of  Christ  to  her 
heart,  while  John  and  Mary  Magdalene  look  on  in  hopeless 
sorrow.  Figures  in  black  and  white  came  after,  with  their 
sixteenth-century  carving,  Christ  of  the  Dying  Breath,  be- 
neath the  cross  standing  Our  Lady  of  Tears.  And  last  of  all, 
in  slow,  sad  movement,  their  white  trains  streaming  like  a  line 


Passion  Week  in  Seville  81 

of  light  along  the  stone-paved  way,  passed  the  second  brother- 
hood of  San  Lorenzo,  bearing  the  Most  Blessed  Virgin  in  her 
Solitude.  The  gold  of  her  mantle  seemed  one  with  the  gold  of 
the  candle  rays,  and,  for  many  a  silent  watcher,  those  gliding, 
gleaming,  spiritlike  forms  will  move  forever  down  a  shining 
path  in  memory.  So  closed  the  Holy  Week  processions. 

"  How  sorry  I  am,"  said  our  host,  with  the  Andalusian 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  It  is  almost  eleven  o'clock.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  will  you  please  walk  out  to  dinner  ?  " 

On  Saturday  morning  we  went  early  to  the  cathedral  for 
the  closing  rite.  The  Sagrario  was  thronged.  Some  of  the 
senoras  had  brought  low  folding  chairs  with  them,  others 
sat  upon  the  floor,  but  most  of  that  innumerable  congregation 
knelt  or  stood.  We  were  all  facing  the  great  purple  veil 
which  concealed  the  high  altar,  with  Roldan's  retablo  of  the 
Descent  from  the  Cross.  There  was  an  hour  or  more  of 
expectation,  during  which  rosaries  slipped  through  the  fingers 
of  many  a  veiled  nun,  and  the  soft  murmur  of  prayer  came 
from  strong  men  as  well  as  from  pale-faced  women.  Sud- 
denly, while  a  shock  of  thunder  crashed  from  the  organ,  hid- 
den ministrants  sharply  drew  on  hidden  cords,  the  purple 
curtain  parted  in  the  midst,  and  the  two  folds  rolled  asunder, 
revealing  the  high  altar,  with  its  carving  of  the  accomplished 
Passion.  The  organ  poured  forth  jubilees  of  victory,  all  the 
bells  of  the  cathedral  pealed  together,  Gloria  in  Excelsis  soared 
in  choral  chant,  and  amid  the  awe-stricken  multitudes  fallen 
to  their  knees,  Su  Majestad  was  borne  in  priestly  procession 
from  the  tomb  in  the  Royal  Chapel  to  the  candles  and  incense 
which  awaited  at  the  high  altar  that  triumphal  coming. 

Easter  Sunday  was  celebrated  by  a  bull-fight. 


VII 


TRACES    OF    THE    INQUISITION 

"  I  live  a  life  more  great  than  I. 
The  life  I  hope  is  life  so  high, 
I  die  because  I  cannot  die." 

—  Santa  Teresa  de  Jesuf. 

ALL  Spaniards  venerate  the  name  of  Isabel  la  Catolica^ 
nor  is  the  impressionable  De  Amicis  the  only  for- 
eigner who  has  trembled  and  wept  at  Granada 
before  the  enshrined  memorials,  jewel  box,  mirror,  missal,  and 
crown,  of  her  royal  womanhood.  She  is  a  precious  figure  in 
Spain's  sunset  revery — a  saint  beneath  a  conquering  standard, 
a  silken  lady  in  a  soldier's  tent.  Yet  this  peerless  queen, 
merciful,  magnanimous,  devout,  "  the  shield  of  the  inno- 
cent," caring  supremely  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  good  of 
her  country,  gave  consent,  albeit  reluctant,  to  the  establish- 
ment of  the  Inquisition,  Christianity's  chief  scandal  and 
Spain's  most  fatal  blight.  So  ironic  were  the  stars  of  Isabel. 
The  Inquisition,  it  is  true,  originated  in  Italy  early  in  the 
thirteenth  century  and  followed  the  flight  of  some  of  the 
Albigenses  into  Aragon,  but  its  work  in  Spain  had  been  com- 
paratively slight  and  merciful  until  the  "  Catholic  Kings,"  in 
the  interests  of  religious  reform,  for  the  purification  of  the 
national  faith,  let  its  horrors  loose.  Wherever  one  moves  in 

82 


Traces  of*  the  Inquisition  83 

Spain  the  sickening  breath  of  the  auto  de  fe  lingers  in  the  air. 
In  such  a  square,  we  read,  was  once  a  mighty  bonfire  of  Jews  ; 
beneath  our  feet,  we  are  told,  is  a  mass  of  human  bones  and 
cinders.  This  sunshiny  Seville,  with  her  parks  and  patios, 
her  palms  and  orange  groves,  a  city  seemingly  fashioned  only 
for  love  and  song,  had  her  army  of  nearly  twoscore  thousand 
martyrs,  who,  dressed  in  the  hateful  San  Benitos,  yellow  coats 
painted  with  flames  and  devils,  were  burned  to  death  here  in 
our  gay  Plaza  de  la  Constitution^  then  known  as  the  Plaza  de 
San  Francisco,  and  in  the  ^uemadero  beyond  the  walls.  As 
one  mingles  with  some  outdoor  throng,  all  intent  on  pageant, 
dance,  or  other  spectacle,  one  shudders  to  remember  that 
just  such  dark,  eager  faces  were  ringed  about  the  agonies  of 

j  f  O  O  O 

those  heroic  victims.  For  there  are  two  sides  to  the  Spanish 
Inquisition.  If  Spaniards  were  the  inquisitors,  Spaniards, 
too,  were  the  dauntless  sufferers.  The  sombre  gaze  of  the 

'  O 

torturer  was  met,  as  steel  meets  iron,  by  the  unflinching  eye 
of  the  tortured.  But  "  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time  " 
transforms  all  tragedy  to  beauty,  and  red  poppies,  blowing  on 
the  grassy  plain  of  the  ^uemadero,  translate  into  poetry  to-day 
that  tale  of  blazing  fagots. 

Sometimes  the  victims  were  of  foreign  blood.  Hakluyt 
has  preserved  the  simple  narratives  of  two  English  sailors, 
who  were  brought  by  their  Spanish  captors  from  the  Indies  as 
a  sacrifice  to  the  Holy  House  of  Seville.  One,  a  happy-go- 
lucky  fellow,  Miles  Phillips,  who  had  been  too  well  acquainted 
in  Mexico  with  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition,  slipped  over 
the  ship's  side  at  San  Lucar,  made  his  way  to  shore,  and  boldly 
went  to  Seville,  where  he  lived  a  hidden  life  as  a  silk-weaver, 
until  he  found  his  chance  to  steal  away  and  board  a  Devon 


84  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

merchantman.  The  other,  Job  Hortop,  added  to  his  two 
years  of  Mexican  imprisonment  two  more  years  in  Seville. 
Then  "  they  brought  us  out  in  procession,  every  one  of  us 
having  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and  the  coat  with  S.  Andrew's 
cross  on  our  backs ;  they  brought  us  up  on  an  high  scaffold, 
that  was  set  up  in  the  place  of  S.  Francis,  which  is  in  the 
chief  street  of  Seville  ;  there  they  set  us  down  upon  benches, 
every  one  in  his  degree,  and  against  us  on  another  scaffold 
sate  all  the  Judges  and  the  Clergy  on  their  benches.  The 
people  wondered,  and  gazed  on  us,  some  pitying  our  case, 
others  said,  burn  those  heretics.  When  we  had  sat  there 
two  hours,  we  had  a  sermon  made  to  us,  after  which  one 
called  Bresinia,  secretary  to  the  Inquisition,  went  up  into  the 
pulpit  with  the  process,  and  called  Robert  Barret,  ship-master, 
and  John  Gilbert,  whom  two  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition 
brought  from  the  scaffold  before  the  Judges,  where  the  sec- 
retary read  the  sentence,  which  was  that  they  should  be  burnt, 
and  so  they  returned  to  the  scaffold,  and  were  burnt. 

"  Then  I,  Job  Hortop,  and  John  Bone,  were  called,  and 
brought  to  the  place,  as  before,  when  we  heard  our  sentence, 
which  was,  that  we  should  go  to  the  Galleys,  and  there  to 
row  at  the  oar's  end  ten  years,  and  then  to  be  brought  back 
to  the  Inquisition  House,  to  have  the  coat  with  S.  Andrew's 
cross  put  on  our  backs,  and  from  thence  to  go  to  the  ever- 
lasting prison  remediless. 

"  I  with  the  rest  were  sent  to  the  Galleys,  where  we  were 
chained  four  and  four  together.  .  .  .  Hunger,  thirst,  cold, 
and  stripes  we  lacked  none,  till  our  several  times  expired,  and 
after  the  time  of  twelve  years,  for  I  served  two  years  above 
my  sentence,  I  was  sent  back  to  the  Inquisition  House  in 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  85 

Seville,  and  there  having  put  on  the  coat  with  S.  Andrew's 
cross,  I  was  sent  to  the  everlasting  prison  remediless,  where 
I  wore  the  coat  four  years,  and  then  upon  great  suit  I  had  it 
taken  off  for  fifty  duckets,  which  Hernando  de  Soria,  treasurer 
of  the  king's  mint,  lent  me,  whom  I  was  to  serve  for  it  as  a 
drudge  seven  years." 

But  this  victim,  too,  escaped  in  a  fly-boat  at  last,  and  on 
a  certain  Christmas  Eve,  about  the  time  when  people  in 
London  were  beginning  to  like  the  comedies  of  a  certain  poor 
player,  one  Will  Shakespeare,  did  Job  Hortop,  Powder-maker 
and  Gunner,  walk  quietly,  after  twenty-three  years  of  martyr- 
dom, into  the  village  of  Redcliffe,  where  he  had  been  a  ruddy 
English  boy  with  no  dream  of  the  day  when  he  should  be 
"  prest  forth"  by  Sir  John  Hawkins  and  compelled,  sore 
against  his  will,  to  embark  for  the  West  Indian  adventure. 

Religious  liberty  now  exists  under  the  laws  of  Spain, 
although  the  administration  of  those  laws  leaves  much  to  be 
desired.  In  three  old  conventual  churches  of  Seville  gather 
her  three  Protestant  congregations.  Beneath  the  pavements 
of  two  of  these  heretic  strongholds  old  inquisitors  sleep  what 
uneasy  sleep  they  may,  while  one  of  the  Protestant  pastors, 
formerly  a  Catholic  priest,  has  quietly  collected  and  stored  in 
his  church-study  numerous  mementos  of  the  Holy  Office.  Here 
may  be  seen  two  of  those  rare  copies  of  the  1602  revision 
of  the  Spanish  Bible,  by  Cipriano  de  Valera,  whom  the 
Inquisition  could  burn  only  in  effigy,  since  the  translator, 
who  had  printed  his  book  in  Amsterdam,  did  not  return  to 
accompany  the  Familiars  to  the  Quemadero.  Here  are  old 
books  with  horrible  woodcuts  of  the  torments,  and  time- 
stained  manuscripts,  several  bearing  the  seal  and  signatures 


86  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

of  the  "Catholic  Kings,"  these  last  so  ill  written  that  it  is 
hard  to  tell  the  name  of  Ferdinand  from  that  of  Isabella. 
Among  these  are  royal  commissions,  or  licenses,  granted  to 
individual  inquisitors,  records  of  autos  de  fe,  and  wills  of  rich 
inquisitors,  the  sources  of  whose  wealth  would  hardly  court 
a  strict  examination.  Here,  too,  is  the  standard  of  the  Holy 
Office,  the  very  banner  borne  through  Seville  in  those  grim 
processions.  Its  white  silk  is  saffroned  now,  but  the  Gtrange 
seal  of  the  Inquisition,  a  bleeding  Christ  upon  the  cross,  is 
clearly  blazoned  in  the  centre,  while  the  four  corners  show 
the  seal  of  San  Domingo. 

The  Inquisition  prison,  the  dreaded  Holy  House  of  Seville, 
is  used  as  a  factory  at  present,  and  heresy  no  longer  secures 
admission  there  ;  but  I  looked  up  at  its  grated  windows,  and 
then,  with  a  secret  shiver,  down  on  the  ground,  where  the 
Spanish  pastor  of  antiquarian  tastes  was  marking  out  with  his 
cane  the  directions  of  the  far-branching  subterranean  cells. 
We  slipped  into  an  outer  court  of  the  fabrica,  where  the  two 
gentlemen,  effectively  aided  by  a  couple  of  sturdy  lads,  pried 
up  and  flung  back  a  sullen  door  in  the  pavement  and  invited 
me  to  grope  my  darkling  way  down  some  twenty  crumbling 
steps,  overgrown  with  a  treacherous  green  mould.  There  was 
no  refusing,  in  face  of  the  cloud  of  witnesses  whose  groans 
these  stones  had  heard,  and  I  took  a  heart-breaking  plunge 
into  the  honeycomb  of  chill,  foul-smelling,  horror-haunted 
dungeons,  whose  roofs  let  fall  a  constant  drip  of  water  and 
from  whose  black  recesses  I  was  the  unwilling  means  of 
liberating  a  choice  variety  of  insects. 

"  Hut  even  yet  one  cannot  call  one's  self  a  Protestant  in 
Spain,  you  know,"  said  an  English  diplomat  to  us  in  another 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  87 

city  of  Andalusia.  "It's  not  socially  respectable.  Spanish 
Protestants  are  the  very  scum  of  the  earth  —  illiterate,  dirty, 
boorish.  You  couldn't  associate  with  them  for  a  minute." 

u  But  that  Spanish  pastor  who  called  on  us  yesterday  was 
entirely  a  gentleman,"  we  remonstrated.  "  He  has  studied 
for  seven  years  in  Switzerland  and  Scotland,  seems  more 
open-minded  and  intelligent  than  most  Spaniards  we  have 
met,  and  was  so  courteous  and  graceful  in  his  bearing — not 
to  mention  the  whiteness  of  his  linen  —  and  so  entertaining 
in  his  talk,  that  the  Spanish  ladies  in  the  room  chorussed  his 
praises,  after  he  had  bowed  himself  out,  and  declared  him 
most  delightful  company." 

The  diplomat  twirled  his  mustache  and  smiled,  as  only 
diplomats  can.  "  And  you  owned  up  that  he  was  a  Protes- 
tant ?  And  their  faces  darkened  as  if  a  storm-cloud  had 
blown  over  from  the  Sierras  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,"  we  admitted,  "  and  after  that  the  best  they 
could  say  for  him  was  that  they  never  would  have  thought  it." 

The  diplomat  claimed  that  he  had  made  his  point,  while  we 
protested  that  the  incident  only  went  to  show  how  unreason- 
able was  the  prejudice  of  whose  existence  throughout  Spain 
there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt. 

Perez  Galdos,  for  instance,  the  most  popular  novelist  or 
the  day,  stated  to  an  American  friend,  who  repeated  it  to  us, 
that  he  frankly  could  not  afford  to  introduce  the  figure  of  a 
Protestant  into  one  of  his  stories.  "  It  would  not  only  kill 
that  book,"  he  said,  "  but  it  would  hurt  the  sale  of  everything 
I  have  in  the  market  and  embarrass  all  my  future  undertak- 
ings. I  should  simply  be  risking  the  loss  of  my  reading 
public."  And  yet  Senor  Galdos  is  the  author  of  "  Dona 


88  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Perfecta,"  that  artistic  study  of  the  conflict  between  new 
ideas  and  old  in  Spain.  In  this  significant  novel,  a  civil 
engineer,  a  man  of  thirty,  whose  scientific  education  in  the 
large  cities  of  Seville  and  Madrid  has  been  supplemented  by 
study  in  Germany  and  England,  comes  to  one  of  those  mediaeval 
towns,  or  corpses  of  towns,  that  rise  so  spectre-like  from  the  ash- 
colored  plains  of  Old  Castile.  Crumbling  walls  and  blackened 
towers  jealously  guard  the  life  of  ages  since,  that  feudal  life 
of  high  and  low,  pride  of  station,  pride  of  animal  prowess, 
pride  of  holiness,  pride  of  idleness,  pride  of  ignorance ;  the 
life  of  superstition,  of  family  exclusiveness  resulting  in  inter- 
marriage to  the  point  of  insanity ;  of  that  fierce  local  bigotry, 
peculiarly  Spanish,  which  dreads  and  hates  all  foreign  intru- 
sion. The  streets,  devoid  of  business  activity,  swarm  with 
vigorous  mendicants,  who  have  no  better  shift,  when  times 
grow  hard,  than  to  deform  the  children  who  are  born  to  them 
like  kittens  in  their  mud-walled  hovels.  The  casino,  where 
half  the  town  smokes  half  its  time  away,  hums  with  malicious 
gossip.  The  university  languidly  pursues  the  studies  of  Latin, 
scholastic  divinity,  Church  history,  and  all  that  savors  of  the 
past.  Under  the  gray  vault  of  the  cathedral  women  kneel 
before  the  image  of  the  Christ  Child,  bringing  Him  a  new 
pair  of  embroidered  pantalets  and  entreating  of  His  rosy 
simplicity  what  they  would  not  dare  ask  from  the  "  Ecce 
Homo ";  or  they  kiss  the  satin-slippered  feet  of  the  miracle- 
working  Virgin  and  vow  her,  if  their  prayer  is  granted,  seven 
bright  new  swords  of  the  finest  Toledo  workmanship  to  pierce 
her  patient  heart.  The  man  of  scientific  training,  fresh  from  the 
modern  world,  is  brought  into  sharp  collision  with  this  dim 
old  town.  High  principles  and  essential,  spiritual  Christian- 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  89 

ity  count  him  for  nothing;  he  is  speedily  denounced  as  no 
better  than  "  a  murderer,  an  atheist,  or  a  Protestant,"  and 
his  strong  young ,  life  is  actually  beaten  out  by  that  blind, 
terrible  force  of  Spanish  fanaticism.  So  far  the  novelist  can 
go;  such  a  hero  he  dares  paint;  but  not  a  Protestant. 

The  notions  of  Protestantism  prevalent  among  the  people, 
not  the  peasants  only,  but  the  gentry,  are  little  short  of  ludi- 
crous. A  black-eyed  lady  of  Cadiz  was  amazed  at  our 
assertion  that  Protestants  prayed.  A  Madrid  senorita  asked 
us,  in  friendly  confidence,  if  it  were  true  that  Protestants 
"denied  Christ  and  spat  on  the  Virgin."  The  popular 
identification  of  Protestantism  with  all  that  is  impious  and 
criminal  we  encountered  as  early  as  our  second  afternoon  in 
Spain.  We  were  visiting,  in  the  picturesque  fishing-hamlet 
of  Pasajes,  a  gaunt  Basque  church,  where  the  old  dame  who 
served  as  caretaker  showed  us  a  waxen  image  of  a  sleeping 
girl,  said,  not  without  probability,  to  have  been  brought  from 
Rome.  Beneath  the  figure  is  a  burial  stone,  whose  inscrip- 
tion would  locate  it  in  the  Catacombs.  When  friends  of 
ours  were  at  Pasajes  some  three  years  before,  the  grandam's 
story  ran  that  the  image  was  the  likeness  of  a  Christian  martyr, 
slain  by  her  pagan  father  at  Rome  in  the  time  of  the  Imperial 
persecutions ;  but  the  tale  glibly  recited  to  us  was  this  : 
"Ay  de  mi!  The  poor  young  lady!  Her  father  was  a 
Protestant,  and,  of  course,  hated  religion,  and  when  his 
daughter,  so  beautiful,  was  on  her  way  to  her  first  communion, 
he  hid  behind  a  corner,  with  an  axe,  and  of  a  sudden  jumped 
out  on  her  and  struck  her  dead." 

It  is  such  prejudice  that  goes  far  toward  justifying  the  main- 
tenance by  foreign  societies  of  Protestant  churches  in  Spain, 


po  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

They  cannot  stand  alone,  in  face  of  all  this  hostility,  and  yet 
the  country  has  need  of  them.  No  European  nation  can 
nowadays  be  shut  in  to  any  single  channel  of  religious  life, 
and  doubtless,  apart  from  all  questions  of  creed,  there  are 
Spanish  temperaments  to  which  the  simpler  culto  is  more  nat- 
ural than  the  elaborate  ritual  of  Rome ;  but,  waiving  discus- 
sion as  to  the  relative  gifts  and  graces  of  these  two  great 
divisions  of  Christ's  fellowship,  the  new  seems  essential,  not 
for  itself  alone,  but  as  a  stimulus  and  corrective  to  the  old. 
Time  may  make  it  clear  that  a  purified  Roman  Catholicism 
is  better  suited  to  the  Latin  races  in  general  than  plainer  rites 
and  less  symbolic  worship,  but  there  are  heavy  counts  against 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  as  it  exists  in  Spain.  The  pri- 
vate lives  of  the  clergy,  as  a  class,  have  been  so  open  to 
reproach  that  even  the  finger-games  and  nonsense  songs  of 
the  little  children,  learned  with  their  baby  lispings,  mock 
priestly  immorality.  The  Church,  steward  of  untold  wealth, 
has  endowed  many  charities,  but  the  fundamental  trust  of 
knowledge  it  has  most  sluggishly  and  inadequately  dispensed. 
Santiago  de  Compostela,  for  example,  is  a  very  nest  of  reli- 
gious foundations.  Thirty-six  Christian  fraternities  are  gath- 
ered there,  yet  we  were  told  on  good  authority  that  not  one 
peasant  in  a  hundred  of  those  within  hearing  of  Santiago's 
fivescore  and  fourteen  holy  bells  can  read  and  write.  In 
matters  of  State,  the  Church  has  utterly  lost  the  allegiance 
of  the  progressive  party  and,  to  a  large  extent,  the  political 
confidence  of  the  nation.  As  Spaniards  study  the  history  of 
their  country,  they  realize  more  and  more  that  her  colossal 
mistakes  and  misfortunes  have  been  due  in  large  measure  to 
Jesuit  and  Dominical  policy  —  to  the  father  confessor  in  the 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  91 

royal  chamber,  the  inquisitor  in  shadow  of  the  throne.  With 
reference  to  the  success  of  the  Church  in  promoting  spiritual 
life,  a  beautiful  young  nun,  her  eyes  glistening  like  happy 
stars,  assured  us  that  there  was  more  devotion  in  Catholic 
Spain  than  in  all  the  rest  of  Christendom.  A  scientist  of 
repute,  his  voice  choking  with  grief  and  wrath,  declared  to 
us  that  the  fetters  of  superstition  had  become  hopelessly 
riveted,  during  these  ages  of  Church  control,  on  the  Span- 
ish mind.  But  call  it  what  you  will,  devotion  or  supersti- 
tion, and  admitting,  as  the  tourist  must,  that  it  is  a  most 
conspicuous  and  impressive  feature  of  Spanish  life,  there  are 
nevertheless  thousands  of  Spaniards,  especially  the  younger 
men,  over  whom  it  has  lost  sway.  These  are  the  indifer- 
entes,  many  of  whom  might  find,  as  some  have  found,  in  a 
fresh  presentation  of  Christianity,  the  Godward  impetus 
which  they  no  longer  gain  from  the  Church  of  Rome. 

The  most  cheerful  indiferente  I  encountered  in  Spain  was 
a  whimsical  old  philosopher,  well  on  his  way  to  the  nineties, 
yet  so  brisk  and  hardy  as  almost  to  vie  with  Borrow's  Portu- 
guese dame  whose  hair  "  was  becoming  gray  "  after  a  iife  of 
one  hundred  and  ten  years.  His  hair,  indeed,  is  white,  and 
extreme  age  has  written  its  deforming  marks  on  face  and 
figure,  yet  he  runs  up  the  steepest  stairs,  reads  the  finest  print, 
fills  his  days  with  a  close  succession  of  labors  and  amuse- 
ments, and  scoffs  at  religion  as  airily  as  if  Death  had  passed 
him  on  the  crowded  way  and  would  never  turn  back  to  look 
for  him  again. 

At  our  first  meeting  he  offered,  with  characteristic  kind- 
ness, to  come  and  read  Spanish  with  me.  As  I  had  invaded 
Spain  for  the  express  purpose  of  studying  the  Spanish  drama, 


92  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

I  took  a  volume  of  Calderon  from  my  trunk  and  hopefully 
awaited  his  visit.  But  it  was  a  matter  of  several  visits  before 
I  could  open  my  Calderon.  The  jaunty  old  cavalier  arrived, 
brimming  over  with  chat  and  anecdote,  and  when  at  last  I 
hinted  at  the  reading,  produced  with  pride  from  his  inner 
coat  pocket  a  little,  paper-bound  geografia  that  he  had  written 
himself  for  use  in  the  Spanish  schools,  and  proceeded  to  regale 
me  with  extracts  from  its  pages.  I  looked  severely  at  the  little 
artist,  whose  eyes  were  dancing  in  a  demure  face,  and  endeav- 
ored to  profit  by  this  unexpected  course  of  instruction.  The 
author  chuckled  much  over  his  sagacity  in  having  arranged 
the  subject-matter  of  his  book  in  paragraphs  and  not  by 
question  and  answer.  In  the  latter  case,  he  explained,  the 
children  would  learn  the  answers  without  reading  the  ques- 
tions, a  process  bound  to  result  in  geographical  confusion. 
The  little  volume,  as  is  the  wont  of  school  books  in  other 
lands,  tended  to  give  to  its  students  a  disproportionate  idea 
of  the  importance  of  their  own  country.  Spain  and  her 
colonies  were  treated  in  seventy  pages,  Great  Britain  and 
her  colonies  in  three,  France  in  four,  while  America,  from 
Greenland  to  Patagonia,  was  handled  as  a  single  entity,  one 
figure  each,  and  those  absurdly  small,  being  set  for  "  her 
population,  army,  and  navy."  The  Confederacibn  de  los  Esta- 
dos  Unidos  was  barely  mentioned  as  one  of  the  five  "  States  " 
of  North  America. 

But  the  only  feature  of  his  book  for  which  the  author 
felt  called  upon  to  apologize,  was  the  catering  to  popular 
superstition,  as  in  stating,  for  instance,  that  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Santiago  de  Compostela  is  adored  the  veritable  body  of 
St.  James.  He  cast  a  quizzical  glance  at  me  in  reading  this, 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  93 

and  then  laughed  himself  purple  in  the  face.  "  One  has  to 
say  these  things  in  this  country,"  he  gasped,  still  breathless 
from  his  mirth.  "  Drops  of  water  must  run  with  the  stream. 
If  only  there  were  a  shrine  where  people  might  be  cured  of 
being  fools  !  " 

Quick-witted  as  the  old  gentleman  was,  he  presently  de- 
tected a  lack  of  geographical  enthusiasm  in  his  audience. 
His  literary  vanity  smarted  for  a  moment  and  then  he  fell  to 
laughing,  declaring  that  ladies  always  had  a  distaste  for  useful 
information.  u  That  old  wife  of  mine "  could  not  abide 
arithmetic.  He  digressed  into  an  explanation  of  the  Roman 
notation,  making  it  quite  clear  to  us  wherein  IX  differs  from 
XI,  and  with  antiquated  courtliness  of  phrase,  even  for  Spain, 
asked  our  gracious  permission  to  cause  himself  the  pain  of 
departure. 

He  often  reappeared.  His  wiry  arm,  reached  through  the 
Moorish  bars  of  the  outer  door,  would  give  its  own  peculiarly 
energetic  twitch  to  the  bell  chain  looped  within.  A  maid, 
leaning  over  the  railing  of  an  upper  story,  would  call  down 
the  challenge  inherited  from  good  old  fighting  times,  "  Who 
comes  here  ?  "  And  his  thin  voice  would  chirp  the  Andalusian 
answer,  "  Peace." 

On  his  second  visit  he  fairly  gurgled  with  pleasure  as  he 
placed  another  volume  with  his  name  on  the  title-page  before 
me.  Since  I  did  not  incline  to  solid  reading,  behold  him  equally 
ready  to  supply  me  with  the  sweets  of  literature  !  This,  too, 
was  a  school  book,  a  somewhat  haphazard  collection  of  Cas- 
tilian  poems,  with  brief  biographies  of  the  authors  represented. 
Its  novel  educational  feature  was  the  printing  of  each  poem 
in  a  different  type.  The  result  was  a  little  startling  to  the 


94  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

eve,  but  the  editor  was  doubtless  right  in  claiming  that  it 
made  the  reading  harder  for  the  children,  and  so  developed 
their  powers  through  exercise.  Here,  again,  he  was  ashamed 
of  the  fact  that  fully  two-thirds  of  the  poems  were  religious. 

"  But  what  can  one  do  in  this  country  ?  "  he  asked  testily. 
"  All  the  reading  books  have  to  be  like  that.  Bah  !  But  we 
will  not  read  these  pious  verses.  The  others  are  much  more 
entertaining." 

Determined  not  to  wound  him  again  by  any  lack  of  inter- 
est in  books  of  his  own  shaping,  we  sat  patiently  through 
page  after  page  of  that  juvenile  school  reader;  but  when,  with 
a  pamphlet  on  spelling  and  punctuation,  we  had  completed 
the  list  of  his  works,  I  once  more  called  his  attention  to 
Calderon. 

This  struck  him  as  a  capital  joke.  He  had  never  read 
Calderon  himself,  he  had  hardly  heard  of  Calderon,  and  that 
a  foreigner,  a  woman  at  that,  should  insist  on  reading  Cal- 
deron, was  funny  enough  to  make  his  old  sides  ache.  There 
were  modern  authors  in  plenty  who  must  certainly  write  much 
better  than  an  out-of-date  fellow  like  that.  He  had  books  that 
he  could  lend  me.  He  had  friends  from  whom  he  could 
borrow.  But  nothing  would  please  me  but  Calderon  !  Why 
under  the  fanciful  moon  should  I  set  my  heart  on  Calderon  ? 

"  Bueno ! '"  he  cried  at  last,  whisking  the  mirthful  tears 
from  his  eyes.  "  Vamos  a  ver  !  Let  us  go  on  and  see  !  " 

We  opened  the  classic  volume  at  the  Catholic  Faust-drama, 
El  Magico  Prodigioso,  and  began  to  read,  soon  passing  into  the 
great  argument  between  Cipriano  and  Lucifer  as  to  the  nature 
of  God.  Our  guest,  sensitive  to  all  impressions  as  he  was, 
became  immediately  amazed  and  delighted. 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  95 

"  But  this  is  lofty  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  This  is  sublime  ! 
Good,  Cipriano,  good  !  Now  you  have  him  !  What  will 
the  devil  say  to  that  ?  Vamos  a  ver  !  " 

At  the  close  of  that  tremendous  scene  he  shut  the  book, 
fairly  panting  with  excitement.  But  nevertheless  there  was 
a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  knew  now  why  I  craved  this  Cal- 
deron.  He  was  evidently  a  religious  writer,  and  women  were 
all  religious.  It  was  an  amiable  feminine  weakness,  like  the 
aversion  to  geography  and  arithmetic.  But  his  indulgent 
chivalry  rose  to  the  occasion.  Having  learned  my  taste, 
such  as  it  was,  he  would  gratify  it  to  the  utmost. 

"  If  you  would  only  come  and  see  my  library  ! "  he  pro- 
posed. "  I  have  exactly  the  book  there  that  will  please  you. 
I  have  not  read  it  myself,  but  it  is  very  large,  with  most 
beautiful  pictures,  and  it  tells  these  old  stories  about  Lucifer 
and  all  that.  I  am  sure  it  is  just  what  you  would  like. 
Will  you  not  do  your  humble  servant  the  honor  of  coming 
to-morrow  afternoon  ?  " 

I  ran  over  in  my  mind  our  engagements  for  the  morrow. 
He  mistook  the  cause  of  my  hesitation. 

"  Indeed  you  need  not  be  afraid  to  come,"  he  urged. 
"  My  house  is  as  safe  as  a  convent.  That  old  wife  of  mine, 
too,  will  be  sure  to  be  somewhere  about.  And  you  can  bring 
the  silent  senorita  with  you." 

I  was  aware  of  a  slight  convulsion  in  "  the  silent  senorita." 
She  could  speak  all  the  Spanish  she  chose,  but  she  found  the 
eccentricities  of  this  visitor  so  disconcerting  that  she  affected 
ignorance,  and  he  supposed  her  mute  presence  at  our  inter- 
views to  be  purely  in  deference  to  the  Spanish  proprieties. 

My  youthful  chaperon,  much  elated  by  this  reversal  of  our 


g6  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

natural  positions,  duly  attended  me  the  next  day  to  our 
friend's  surprisingly  elegant  home.  He  was  forever  crying 
poverty  and  telling  us,  with  the  tears  that  came  to  his  old 
age  as  easily  as  the  laughter,  how  the  hardships  of  life  had 
beaten  out  of  him  every  ambition  save  hope  to  "  gain  the 
bread  "  until  his  death,  but  we  found  him  luxuriously  housed, 
and  I  was  afterward  informed  that  he  was  one  of  the  richest 
men  in  the  city. 

He  ran  with  that  wonderful  sprightliness  of  his  across  the 
marbled  court  to  meet  us,  and  ceremoniously  conducted  us  up 
the  handsome  staircase.  He  led  us  through  all  "our  house," 
typically  Andalusian,  with  statues  and  urns  of  blossoming  trees 
set  in  the  open,  patios,  with  Moorish  arches  and  bright-hued 
tiles,  shaded  balconies,  tapestried  and  curtained  beds,  braseros, 
and  rocking-chairs,  and  in  every  room  images  and  paintings 
of  the  saints,  at  which  he  made  irreverent  grimaces. 

There  were  family  portraits,  too,  before  three  of  which  he 
broke  down  into  weeping  —  the  son  who  had  died  in  the 
prime  of  manhood,  the  daughter  lost  in  her  fair  maidenhood, 
and,  where  the  stormy  sobs  shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  the 
Benjamin  of  his  heart,  a  clear-eyed  young  officer  who  had 
fallen  in  the  Cuban  war.  The  tears  were  still  streaming 
down  the  quivering  old  face  when  we  turned  silently  away 

—  for  what  word  of  comfort  would  Americans  dare  to  speak  ? 

—  and  followed  him  to  his  study. 

He  was  of  extravagant  repute  in  his  locality  as  a  scholar 
and  a  man  of  letters,  and  his  study  was  what  a  study  ought 
to  be,  —  well  furnished  with  desk,  pigeon-holes,  all  the 
tools  of  literary  labor,  and  walled  with  books.  Among  these 
was  an  encyclopaedia  in  which,  to  his  frank  astonishment,  he 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  97 

found  an  article  of  fifteen  pages  on  Calderon.  The  great 
volume  we  had  come  to  see  lay  open  on  a  reading  stand.  It 
was  a  Spanish  Bible,  with  the  Dore  illustrations.  I  wanted 
to  look  at  the  title-page,  but  our  eager  host,  proud  to  exhibit 
and  explain,  tossed  over  the  leaves  so  fast  that  I  had  no 
opportunity. 

As  he  was  racing  through  the  Psalms,  impatient  because 
of  their  dearth  of  pictures,  my  eye  was  caught  by  the  familiar 
passage,  "  As  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water  brooks,  so 
panteth  my  soul  after  Thee,  O  God." 

With  prompt  curiosity,  he  popped  down  his  white  head,  in 
its  close-fitting  skullcap,  to  see  what  I  was  noting,  and 
instantly  went  off  into  an  immoderate  gust  of  laughter. 

"  Muy  bien  !  "  he  wheezed,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover 
anything  like  a  voice.  "  But  that  is  very  cleverly  put.  He 
was  a  witty  fellow  who  wrote  that.  Just  so  !  Just  so ! 
The  deer  goes  to  the  water  because  he  means  to  get  some- 
thing for  himself,  and  that  is  why  the  young  men  go  into  the 
priesthood,  and  why  the  women  go  to  mass.  It's  all  selfish- 
ness, is  religion.  But  how  well  he  says  it !  " 

"  No,  no ! "  I  exclaimed,  for  once  startled  into  protest. 
"  He  is  saying  that  religion  is  the  impulse  of  thirst." 

The  incorrigible  old  worldling  took  this  for  another  jest, 
and,  as  in  gallantry  bound,  laughed  harder  at  my  sally  than 
at  poor  King  David's. 

"  Excellent !  Perfect !  So  it  is  !  So  it  is  !  Religion  is 
the  impulse  to  fill  one's  own  stomach.  Just  what  I  have 
always  said  !  'As  the  hart  panteth  after  the  water  brooks'  — 
ho,  ho !  I  must  try  to  remember  that." 

His  enthusiasm  for  Calderon  soon  kindled  to  a  flame.     As 


98  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

the  plot  thickened  he  ceased  to  be  of  the  slightest  help  in  any 
difficulties  that  the  text  might  offer.  In  vain  I  would  beseech 
him  to  clear  up  some  troublesome  passage. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  !  "  he  would  say,  vexed  at  the  interrup- 
tion. "  They  didn't  write  very  well  in  those  old  days.  And 
I  want  to  know  which  of  her  three  suitors  Justina  took. 
Three  at  once!  What  a  situation!  Vamosaver!  I  hope 
it  will  be  Cipriano." 

As  the  spell  of  Calderon's  imagination  passed  more  and 
more  strongly  upon  him,  this  most  sympathetic  of  readers 
quite  accepted,  for  the  time  being,  the  poet's  Catholic  point 
of  view,  trembling  for  Cipriano  and  almost  choking  with 
agitated  joy  when  Justina,  calling  in  her  extremity  upon  the 
name  of  God,  put  Lucifer  to  flight.  But  after  we  had  read 
the  drama  to  the  end,  through  its  final  scene  of  triumphant 
martyrdom,  he  sat  silent  for  several  minutes,  and  then  shook 
his  head. 

"Not  true;  it  is  not  true.  There  is  no  devil  but  the  evil 
passions  of  humanity.  And  as  for  Cipriano's  definition  of 
God — it  is  good,  yes;  it  is  great,  yes;  but  who  can  shut 
God  into  a  definition?  One  might  as  well  try  to  scoop  up 
the  ocean  in  a  cocoanut  shell.  No  !  All  religions  are  human 
fictions.  We  have  come,  nobody  knows  whence  or  why,  into 
this  paltry,  foolish,  sordid  life,  for  most  of  us  only  a  fight  to 
gain  the  bread,  and  afterward  —  Bueno  !  I  am  on  the  brink 
of  the  jump,  and  the  priests  have  not  frightened  me  yet. 
Afterward  ?  Vamos  a  ver!  " 

This  man  had  heard  of  Protestantism  simply  as  an  ignorant 
notion  of  the  lower  classes.  For  the  typical  Spanish  Protes- 
tant of  to-day  presents  a  striking  contrast  to  the  typical  Spanish 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  99 

Protestant  of  the  Reformation.  When  heresy  first  entered 
the  Peninsula,  it  gained  almost  no  footing  among  the  common 
people,  who  supposed  Luther  to  be  another  sort  of  devil  and 
the  Protestants  a  new  variety  of  Jews  or  Moors;  but  the  rank 
and  learning  of  Spain,  the  youthful  nobility,  illustrious  preach- 
ers and  writers,  officers  and  favorites  of  the  Court,  even  men 
and  women  in  whose  veins  flowed  the  blood  royal,  welcomed 
with  ardor  the  wave  that  was  surging  over  Europe.  The  very 
eminence  of  these  heretics  sealed  their  doom.  The  Inquisi- 
tion could  not  miss  such  shining  marks.  The  Holy  Office 
did  its  work  with  abominable  thoroughness.  Apart  from  the 
countless  multitudes  whom  it  did  to  death  in  dungeon  and 
torture-chamber,  it  burned  more  than  thirty  thousand  of  the 
most  valuable  citizens  of  Spain  and  drove  forth  from  the 
Peninsula  some  three  millions  of  Jews  and  Moors.  The  autos 
defe  were  festivals.  Among  the  wedding  pomps  for  the  French 
bride  of  Philip  II,  a  girl  thirteen  years  old,  was  one  of  these 
horrible  spectacles  at  Toledo.  The  holiday  fires  of  Seville 
and  Valladolid  drank  the  most  precious  blood  of  Andalusia  and 
Castile.  Though  Saragossa  had  a  mind  to  Huguenot  fuel; 
though  Pamplona,  on  one  festal  day,  heaped  up  a  holocaust  of 
ten  thousand  Jews  ;  though  Granada,  Murcia,  and  Valencia 
whetted  their  cruel  piety  on  the  Moors  who  had  made  the 
southern  provinces  a  garden  of  delight ;  yet  in  all  these  cities, 
as  in  Toledo,  Logrono,  and  the  rest,  the  Spanish  stock  itself 
was  drained  of  its  finest  and  most  highly  cultivated  intelligence, 
its  sincerest  conscience,  purest  valor,  its  most  original  and  inde- 
pendent thought.  Spain  has  been  paying  the  penalty  ever 
since.  Her  history  from  Philip  II  has  been  a  judgment  day. 
No  root  of  the  Lutheran  heresy  survived  in  the  Peninsula. 


ioo  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

The  new  Protestantism  does  not  spring  from  the  old.  The 
blood  of  the  Spanish  martyrs  was  not  the  seed  of  the  Spanish 
church.  The  Protestant  of  to-day  is  far  removed,  socially 
and  politically,  from  the  courtiers,  marquises,  knights  of  San- 
tiago—  those  gallant  cavaliers  who  were  stripped  upon  the 
scaffold  of  their  honorable  decorations  and  clad  in  the  yellow 
robe  of  infamy.  This  nineteenth-century  Protestant  may  be 
a  lawyer  or  a  journalist,  but  by  exception.  Ordinarily  he  is  a 
petty  farmer,  a  small  shop-keeper,  mechanic,  miner,  day-laborer, 
of  humble  calling  and  of  lowly  life.  In  politics  he  is  almost 
surely  a  republican.  When  the  monarchy  was  overthrown, 
in  '68,  Protestantism  was,  for  the  moment,  in  favor,  and 
hundreds  of  the  triumphant  party  hastened  to  profess  the 
reformed  faith.  With  the  return  of  a  Roman  Catholic  court 
and  perhaps  upon  the  discovery  that  the  new  Christianity, 
too,  has  its  burden  and  its  yoke,  many  fell  away. 

Yet  Protestantism  has  now  an  assured  footing  in  Spain. 
Protestant  churches  may  be  found  in  most  of  the  important 
cities.  There  are  some  fifty  foreign  preachers  and  teachers  in 
the  field,  aided  by  nearly  eighty  Spanish  pastors  and  colpor- 
teurs. The  number  of  Spanish  communicants  is  between 
three  and  four  thousand,  the  church  attendance  is  reckoned 
at  nine  thousand,  and  there  are  five  thousand  Spanish  children 
in  the  Protestant  schools.  Several  centres  have  been  estab- 
lished for  the  sale  of  Bibles  and  Protestant  books,  and  six  or 
seven  Protestant  periodicals  are  published  and  circulated.  In 
answer  to  the  continual  Romish  taunt  that  Protestantism  is 
a  war  of  sects,  a  house  divided  against  itself,  a  Protestant 
Union  was  organized  at  Madrid  in  the  spring  of  1899.  All, 
save  two,  of  the  fifteen  missions,  supported  by  various  socie- 


Traces  of  the  Inquisition  101 

ties  of  Great  Britain,  Germany,  Switzerland,  and  America, 
joined  hands  in  this.  Only  the  Plymouth  Brethren  and  the 
Church  of  England  held  aloof. 

The  Inquisition  exists  no  longer.  Religious  liberty,  even 
in  Spain,  has  the  support  of  law.  Yet  still  the  Spanish  Prot- 
estant, this  poor,  plain  Protestant  of  to-day,  as  obscure1  as 
those  Galilean  fishermen  whom  the  Master  called,  is  harassed 
by  petty  persecutions.  Children  sing  insulting  verses  after 
him  in  the  street,  especially  that  pious  ditty  :  — 

"Get  away  with  you,  Protestants, 

Out  of  our  Catholic  Spain, 
That  the  Sacred  Heart,  the  Sacred  Heart, 
May  love  our  land  again." 

He  is  jealously  watched  on  the  passing  of  "  His  Majesty 
the  Wafer  "  and  pursued  with  mud  and  spittings  if  he  fails  to 
do  it  homage.  College  boys  rub  charcoal  over  the  front  of 
his  chapel  and  stone  his  schoolroom  windows ;  work  is  re- 
fused him  ;  promotion  denied  him  ;  his  rent  is  higher  than  his 
neighbor's,  yet  not  his  neighbor's  family  nor  his  landlord's 
cross  his  threshold.  If  scorn  can  burn,  he  feels  the  auto  de  fe. 


VIII 


AN    ANDALUSIAN    TYPE 

"'True,'  quoth  Sancho  :  'but  I  have  heard  say  there  are  more  friars  in  heaven 
than  knights-errant.'  'It  may  be  so,'  replied  Don  Quixote,  '  because  their  number  is 
much  greater  than  that  of  knights-errant.'  '  And  yet,'  quoth  Sancho,  '  there  are  abun- 
dance of  the  errant  sort.'  'Abundance  indeed,'  answered  Don  Quixote,  '  but  few  who 
deserve  the  name  of  knights. '  ' '  —  CERVANTES  :  Don  Quixote. 

IT  might  have  been  in  Seville,  though  it  was  not,  that  I 
met  my  most  simpatico  example  of  the  Andalusian.  He 
was  of  old  Sierra  stock,  merry  as  the  sunshine  and 
gracious  as  the  shadows.  Huge  of  build  and  black  as  the 
blackest,  he  was  as  gentle  as  a  great  Newfoundland  dog,  until 
some  flying  spark  of  a  word  set  the  dark  fires  blazing  in  his 
eyes.  This  was  no  infrequent  occurrence,  for  the  travelling 
Englishman,  as  frank  as  he  is  patriotic,  cannot  comprehend 
the  zest  with  which  well-to-do  Spaniards,  even  in  time  of 
war,  escape  military  service  by  a  money  payment.  Not  the 
height  and  girth  of  our  young  giant,  nor  his  cordial  courtesy 
and  winning  playfulness,  shielded  him  from  the  blunt  ques- 
tion, "  Why  didn't  you  go  over  to  Cuba,  a  great  fellow  like 
you,  and  fight  for  your  flag  ?  "  His  usual  rejoinder  was  the 
eloquent  Southern  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  twist  of  the  eyebrow, 
and  waving  lift  of  the  hand,  with  the  not  easily  answerable 
words,  "  And  to  what  good  ? "  But  now  and  then  the 


An  Andalusian  Type  103 

query  came  from  such  a  source  or  was  delivered  with  so  keen 
a  thrust  that  his  guarded  feeling  outleaped  reserve.  The  sar- 
casms and  mockeries  that  then  surged  from  him  in  a  bitter 
torrent  were  directed  chiefly  against  Spain,  although  the 
American  eagle  rarely  went  scot-free.  "  Ah,  yes,  it  is  a 
fine  fowl,  that  !  He  has  the  far-seeing  eye ;  he  has  the  phil- 
anthropic beak  and  claw  !  "  But  it  was  the  golden  lion  of 
Spain  against  which  his  harshest  gibes  were  hurled  —  "  un  ani- 
mal dom'estico,  that  does  not  bite." 

No  one  of  the  party  was  a  tithe  as  outspoken  as  our  Span- 
iard himself  in  condemning  the  errors  of  the  Spanish  campaign 
or  censuring  the  methods  of  the  Spanish  Government.  If  he 
turned  angrily  toward  a  criticism  from  a  foreigner,  it  was 
only,  in  the  second  instant,  to  catch  it  up  like  a  ball  and  toss 
it  himself  from  one  hand  to  the  other  —  like  a  ball  that  burns 
the  fingers. 

Such  wrath  can  easily  be  the  seamy  side  of  love,  and,  in  a 
way,  the  man's  national  pride  was  measured  by  his  national 
shame ;  but  always  over  these  outbursts  there  brooded  that 
something  hopelessly  resigned,  drearily  fatalistic,  which  seems 
to  vitiate  the  Spanish  indignation  for  any  purposes  of  practical 
reform.  To  suggestions  of  sympathy  he  responded  with  a 
pathetic  weariness  of  manner,  this  handsome  young  Hercules, 
so  radiant  with  the  joy  of  life,  who,  in  his  normal  mood, 
sprinkled  mirth  and  mischief  from  him  as  a  big  dog  shakes  off 
water  drops. 

"  What  can  one  do  ?  I  am  a  Spaniard.  I  say  it  to  my- 
self a  hundred  times  a  day.  I  am  a  Spaniard,  and  I  wish  my 
country  were  worth  the  fighting  for,  worth  the  dying  for. 
But  is  it  ?  Is  it  worth  the  toothache  ?  God  knows  the 


104  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

truth,  and  let  it  rest  there.  Oh,  you  need  not  tell  me  of  its 
past.  It  was  once  the  most  glorious  of  nations.  Spaniards 
were  lords  of  the  West.  But — ah,  I  know,  I  know  — 
Spain  has  never  learned  how  to  rule  her  colonies.  He  who 
sows  brambles  reaps  thorns.  The  Church,  too,  has  done 
much  harm  in  Spain  —  not  more  harm  than  another.  I  am 
a  Catholic,  but  as  I  see  it,  priests  differ  from  other  men  only 
in  this — in  the  cafe  sit  some  bad  men  and  many  good,  and  in 
the  choir  kneel  some  good  priests  and  many  bad.  The  devil 
lurks  behind  the  cross.  But  Spain  will  never  give  up  her 
Church.  It  is  burned  in.  You  are  a  heretic,  and  like  my 
figure,  do  you  not  ?  It  is  burned  in.  There  is  no  hope  for 
Spain  but  to  sink  her  deep  under  the  earth,  and  build  a  new 
Spain  on  top.  And  why  do  I  not  work  for  that  new  Spain  ? 
How  may  a  man  work  ?  There  is  talk  enough  in  Spain  as  it 
is.  Most  Spaniards  talk  and  do  no  more.  They  go  to  the  cafes 
and,  when  they  have  emptied  their  cups,  they  draw  figures  on 
the  tables  and  they  talk.  That  is  all.  The  new  Spain  will 
never  come.  What  should  it  be  ?  Oh,  I  know  better  what 
it  should  not  be.  It  should  have  no  king.  A  republic  — 
that  is  right.  Perhaps  not  a  republic  precisely  like  America. 
It  may  be,"  and  the  melancholy  sarcasm  of  the  tone  deep- 
ened, u  there  could  be  found  something  even  better.  But 
Spain  will  not  find  it.  Spain  will  find  nothing. 

"  What  can  one  do  ?  I  know  Spain  too  well.  Now, 
hear  !  I  am  acquainted  with  a  caballero.  I  have  been  his 
friend  ten  years  and  more.  But  he  has  had  the  luck,  not  I. 
For,  first,  when  we  were  at  the  university,  he  had  a  fortune 
left  to  him.  He  became  betrothed  to  a  senorita  whom  he 
loved  better  than  his  eyelashes.  He  travelled  for  his  pleasure 


An  Andalusian  Type  105 

to  Monte  Carlo,  and  played  his  fortune  all  away  in  one  week. 
He  came  back  to  Madrid,  and  went  to  one  of  the  Ministers, 
to  whom  his  father  had  in  former  days  done  a  great  service. 
My  friend  said  :  '  I  am  to  marry.  The  lady  expects  to  share 
the  fortune  which  I  have  lost.  My  position  is  not  honor- 
able. I  must  have  an  opening,  a  chance  to  redeem  myself, 
or  I  shall  stand  disgraced  before  her.'  The  Minister  sent  him 
to  one  of  the  Cuban  custom-houses,  and  in  two  years  he 
returned  with  great  wealth.  On  his  wedding  journey  he 
spent  a  night  at  Monte  Carlo  and  gambled  it  away  to  the 
last  peseta.  A  stranger  had  to  lend  him  money  to  get  home 
with  his  bride.  Was  he  not  ashamed  and  troubled  ? 
Ashamed  ?  I  do  not  know.  But  troubled  ?  Yes,  for  he 
wanted  to  play  longer.  Every  one  is  as  God  has  made  him, 
and  very  often  worse.  Again  he  went  to  the  Minister,  whose 
heart  was  softer  than  a  ripe  fig  and  who  found  him  a  post  in 
the  Philippines.  This  time  he  made  a  fortune  much  quicker 
than  before,  knowing  better  how  to  do  unjustly,  but  a  few 
weeks  before  the  war  he  came  home  and  lost  it  all  again  at 
Monte  Carlo.  And  now  he  is  horribly  vexed,  for  it  is  an- 
other Minister,  and,  besides,  there  are  no  colonies  to  enrich 
him  any  more. 

"  What  use  to  care  for  Spain  ?  No,  no,  no,  no,  no !  Spain 
is  a  good  country  to  leave  —  that  is  all.  And  you  do  well  to 
travel  in  Spain.  American  ladies  like  change,  and  Spain  is 
not  America.  Here  you  are  not  only  in  a  different  land,  but 
in  a  different  century.  You  can  say,  when  you  come  out, 
that  you  have  been  journeying  a  hundred  years  ago." 

On  another  occasion  one  of  those  pleasant  individuals  who 
would,  as  the  Spaniards  say,  "  talk  of  a  rope  in  the  house  of 


io6  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

one  who  had  been  hanged,"  saw  fit  to  entertain  the  dinner- 
table  with  anecdotes  of  Spanish  cruelty. 

u  But  Spaniards  are  not  cruel,"  protested  our  young  blacka- 
moor in  his  softest  voice  an  hour  later,  stroking  with  one 
great  hand  the  head  of  a  child  who  nestled  against  his  knee. 
"  What  did  that  English  fellow  mean  ?  Why  should  any  one 
think  that  Spaniards  are  cruel  ?  " 

I  ran  over  in  mind  a  few  of  the  frightful  stories  of  Las 
Casas,  that  good  Dominican  friar  who  would  not  hold  his 
peace  when  he  saw  the  braining  of  Indian  babies  and  roasting 
of  Indian  chiefs.  I  remembered  how  De  Soto  tossed  his 
captives  to  the  bloodhounds,  and  what  atrocities  were  wrought 
in  the  tranquil  realm  of  the  Incas ;  I  recalled  the  horrors  of 
the  Inquisition,  but  these  things  were  of  the  past.  So  I 
answered,  u  Perhaps  the  bull-fights  have  done  something  to 
give  foreigners  that  impression." 

Unlike  many  educated  Spaniards  who  would  rather  attend 
the  bull-fights  than  defend  them,  he  squared  his  shoulders  for 
an  oration. 

u  The  bull-fights  ?  But  why  ?  Bull-fights  are  not  cruel 
—  not  more  cruel  than  other  sports  in  other  countries.  I 
have  been  told  of  prize-fights  in  America.  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  see  by  your  look  that  you  do  not  like  them. 
And,  in  truth,  I  do  not  altogether  like  the  bull-fights.  The 
horses  !  They  are  blindfolded,  and  it  is  short,  but  I  have 
seen  —  ah,  yes!  You  would  not  wish  to  hear  what  I  have 
seen.  I  have  been  often  sorry  for  the  horses.  Yet  some 
pain  is  necessary  in  everything,  is  it  not  ?  In  nature,  perhaps  ? 
In  society,  perhaps  ?  Even,  if  you  will  pardon  the  illustration, 
in  the  deliverance  of  the  Filipinos  from  Spanish  tyranny  ?  " 


An  Andalusian  Type  107 

I  briefly  suggested  that  there  was  no  element  of  necessity 
in  bull-fights. 

The  waving  hand  apologized  gently  for  dissent. 

"  But,  yes  !  The  bulls  are  killed  for  food.  That  is  what 
foreigners  do  not  seem  to  understand.  It  may  be  ugly,  but  it 
is  universal.  To  supply  men  with  meat,  to  feed  great  cities 
with  the  flesh  of  beasts  —  it  is  not  pleasant  to  think  of  that 
too  closely.  But  how  to  help  it  ?  Do  you  not  have  slaughter- 
houses in  America  ?  These  also  we  have  in  Spain.  I  have 
visited  one.  It  seemed  to  me  much  worse  than  the  bull-ring. 
Faugh  !  I  did  not  like  it.  The  cattle  stood  trembling,  one 
behind  another,  waiting  for  the  blow.  I  should  not  like  to 
die  like  that.  I  would  rather  die  in  the  wrath  of  battle  like  a 
toro  bravo.  Oh,  it  is  not  cruel.  Do  not  think  it.  For  these 
bulls  feel  no  fear.  It  is  fear  that  degrades.  They  may  feel 
pain,  but  I  doubt  —  I  doubt.  They  feel  the  wildness  of  anger, 
and  they  charge  and  charge  again  until  the  estocada,  the  death 
stab.  That  is  not  so  bad  a  way  to  die,  is  it  ?  Any  man 
would  choose  it  rather  than  to  stand  in  terror,  bound  and 
helpless,  hearing  the  others  fall  under  the  axe  and  seeing  his 
turn  draw  near.  Yes,  yes  !  The  bull-ring  rather  than  the 
slaughter-house  for  me  !  " 

This  was  a  novel  view  of  the  case  to  the  auditor,  who 
ignominiously  shifted  her  ground. 

"  But  what  country  uses  the  slaughter-house  as  a  spectacle 
and  a  sport  ?  It  is  one  thing  to  take  life  for  food,  and  another 
to  make  a  holiday  of  the  death  struggle." 

Again  that  deprecatory  waving  of  the  hands. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  in  America. 
Perhaps  "  [circumflex  accent]  "  all  is  merciful  and  noble  there. 


io8  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

But  when  I  was  in  England  I  saw  something  of  the  chase 
and  of  the  autumn  shooting.  I  saw  a  poor  little  fox  hunted 
to  the  death.  It  was  not  for  food.  The  dogs  tore  him.  I 
saw  wounded  birds  left  in  the  cover  to  die.  It  was  too  much 
trouble  to  gather  them  all  up.  And  the  deer?  Does  not  the 
stag  suffer  more  in  his  flight  than  the  bull  in  his  struggle  ?  I 
believe  it.  To  run  and  run  and  run,  always  growing  weaker, 
while  the  chase  comes  nearer  —  that  is  an  agony.  The 
rage  of  combat  has  no  terror  in  it.  I  would  not  die  like  the 
deer,  hunted  down  by  packs  of  dogs  and  men  —  and  ladies. 
I  would  die  like  the  bull,  hearing  the  cheers  of  the  multitude." 

The  big  fellow  bent  over  the  baby  that  was  dropping  to 
sleep  against  his  knee,  and  slipped  the  drowsy  little  body, 
deftly  and  tenderly,  to  a  sofa.  Such  sweetness  flooded  the 
soft  black  eyes,  as  they  were  lifted  from  the  child,  that  it  was 
hard  to  imagine  them  sparkling  with  savage  delight  over  the 
bloody  scenes  of  the  corrida  de  toros.  I  asked  impulsively 
how  long  it  was  since  he  had  seen  a  bull-fight.  Brows  and 
hands  and  shoulders  were  swift  to  express  their  apprecia- 
tion of  the  bearings  of  the  question,  and  the  voice  became 
very  music  in  courteous  acquiescence. 

"  Ah,  it  is  four  years.  Of  course,  I  was  much  younger  then. 
Yes,  yes  !  It  might  not  please  me  now.  §)uien  sabe  ?  And 
yet  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  think  I  shall  go  next  Sunday  in 
Madrid,  on  my  way  to  Paris.  It  is  so  weary  in  London  on 
the  Sundays.  It  was  always  colder  Sunday,  and  there  was 
not  even  a  cafe.  There  was  nowhere  to  go.  There  was 
nothing  to  do.  Why  is  that  good  ?  At  the  bull-fight  one 
feels  the  joy  of  life.  Is  it  more  religious  to  sit  dull  and 
dismal  by  the  fire  ?  I  had  no  use  for  the  churches.  Walk- 


An  Andalusian  Type  109 

ing  is  not  amusing,  unless  the  sun  shines  and  there  is  some- 
thing gay  to  see.  I  do  not  like  tea,  and  I  do  not  care  for 
reading.  Spaniards  like  to  laugh  and  be  merry,  and  when 
there  is  nothing  to  laugh  for,  life  is  a  heaviness.  There  is 
no  laughter  in  a  London  Sunday.  I  hope  Paris  will  be 
better,  though  I  believe  there  are  no  bull-fights  there  as  yet. 
You  are  not  pleased  with  me,  but  let  me  tell  you  why  I  love 
the  corrida.  It  is  not  for  the  horses,  you  remember.  I  have 
sometimes  looked  away.  But  why  should  I  pity  the  bulls, 
when  they  are  mad  with  battle  ?  They  do  not  pity  them- 
selves. They  are  glad  in  their  fury,  and  I  am  glad  in  seeing 
it.  But  I  am  more  glad  in  the  activity  and  daring  of  the 
men.  When  they  run  risks,  that  is  what  makes  me  cheer. 
It  is  not  that  I  would  have  them  hurt.  I  am  proud  to 
find  men  brave.  And  I  am  excited  and  eager  to  see  if 
they  escape.  Do  you  not  understand  ?  If  you  would  go 
yourself — just  once  —  no?  Is  it  always  no?  Then  let 
me  tell  you  what  is  the  best  of  all.  It  is  to  stand  near  the 
entrance  and  watch  the  people  pass  in,  all  dressed  in  their 
holiday  clothes,  and  all  with  holiday  faces.  It  is  good  and 
beautiful  to  see  them  —  especially  the  ladies." 

The  most  attractive  qualities  of  our  young  Spaniard  were 
his  mirth  and  courtesy.  His  merriment  was  so  spontaneous 
and  so  buoyant  that  his  grace  of  manner,  always  tempered  to 
time  and  place  and  person,  became  the  more  apparent.  His 
humor  dwelt,  nevertheless,  in  the  borderlands  of  irony,  and  it 
was  conceivable  that  the  rubs  of  later  life  might  enrich  its 
pungency  at  the  cost  of  its  kindliness.  He  was  excellent  at 
games  (not  sports),  especially  the  game  of  courtliness  (not 
helpfulness).  The  letter  was  not  posted,  the  message  slipped 


no  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

his  memory,  the  errand  was  done  amiss,  but  his  apologies 
were  poetry.  He  made  a  pretty  play  of  the  slightest  social 
intercourse.  We  would  open  our  Baedeker  at  the  map  which 
we  had  already,  in  crossing  Spain,  unfolded  some  hundred 
times.  He  would  spring  as  lightly  to  his  feet  as  if  his  mighty 
bulk  were  made  of  feathers,  and  stand,  half  bowing,  arching 
his  eyebrows  in  appeal,  spreading  out  his  hands  in  offer  of 
assistance,  but  not  venturing  to  approach  them  toward  the 
book  until  it  was  definitely  tendered  him.  Then  he  would 
receive  it  with  elaborate  delicacy  of  touch,  unfold  the  creased 
sheet  with  a  score  of  varied  little  flourishes,  and  restore  the 
volume  with  a  whole  fresh  series  of  gesticulatory  airs  and 
graces.  The  next  instant  he  would  peep  up  from  under  his 
black  lashes  to  detect  the  alloy  of  amusement  in.our  gratitude, 
and  drop  his  face  flat  upon  the  table  in  a  boyish  bubble  of 
laughter,  saying:  — 

"  Ah  !  But  you  think  we  Spaniards  make  much  of  little 
things.  It  is  true.  We  are  best  at  what  is  least  useful." 

Light-hearted  Andalusian  though  he  was,  he  had  full  share 
of  the  energy  and  enterprise  of  young  manhood.  Like  the 
dons  of  long  ago,  he  was  equipping  himself  for  the  great 
Western  adventure.  Despite  his  Spanish  wrath  against 
America,  she  had  for  him  a  persistent  fascination.  All  his 
ambitions  were  bent  on  a  business  career  in  New  York,  the 
El  Dorado  of  his  imagination.  But  it  was  no  longer,  at  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a  case  of  leaping  aboard  a 
galleon  and  waving  a  Toledo  blade  in  air.  The  commercial 
career  demands,  so  he  fancied,  that  its  knight  go  forth  armed 
cap-a-pie  in  the  commercial  tongues.  Thus  he  had  spent 
four  years  of  his  youth  and  half  of  his  patrimony  in  London 


An  Andalusian  Type  1 1 1 

and  Berlin,  and  now,  after  this  hasty  visit  home,  purposed  to 
go  to  Paris,  for  a  year  or  two  of  French.  This  unsettled  life 
was  little  to  his  liking,  but  beyond  gleamed  the  vision  of  a 
Wall  Street  fortune. 

Yet  even  now,  at  the  outset  of  his  task,  a  frequent  lethargy 
would  steal  over  his  young  vigor.  It  was  curious  to  see, 
when  the  March  wind  blew  chill  or  the  French  verbs  waxed 
crabbed,  how  all  his  bearing  lost  its  beauty.  There  was  a 
central  dignity  that  did  not  lapse,  but  the  brightness  and 
effectiveness  were  gone.  His  big  body  drooped  and  looked 
lumpish.  His  comely  face  was  clouded  by  an  animal  sluggish- 
ness of  expression.  Foreign  grimaces  twisted  across  it,  and 
something  very  like  a  grunt  issued  from  beneath  his  cherished 
first  mustache.  His  sarcasm  became  a  little  savage.  He 
would  sit  for  hours  in  a  brooding  fit,  and,  when  an  inexorable 
call  to  action  came,  obey  it  with  a  look  of  dreary  patience 
older  than  his  years.  It  was  as  if  something  inherent  in  his 
nature,  independent  of  his  will,  weighed  upon  him  and  dragged 
him  down.  The  Spain  at  which  he  gibed  and  from  which  he 
would  have  cut  himself  away  was  yet  a  millstone  about  his 
neck.  He  was  in  the  heyday  of  his  youth,  progressive  and 
determined,  but  the  torpid  blood  of  an  aged  people  clogged 
his  veins.  Spain  will  never  lose  her  hold  on  him,  despite  his 
strongest  efforts.  His  children  may  be  citizens  of  the  great 
Republic,  but  he  must  be  a  foreigner  to  the  end.  He  must 
wander  a  stranger  in  strange  cities,  puzzling  his  Spanish  wits 
over  alien  phrases  and  fashions  and  ideals,  unless,  indeed,  his 
spirit  loses  edge,  and  he  drifts  into  chill  apathy  of  disappoint- 
ment on  finding  that  his  golden  castles  in  America  are  wrought 
of  that  same  old  dream-stuff  which  used  to  be  the  monopoly 
of  castles  in  Spain. 


112  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

But  it  is  best  to  leave  ill-boding  to  the  gypsies.  Good  luck 
may  take  a  liking  to  him,  if  only  for  the  music  of  his  laugh. 
For  even  if  blithe  heart  and  courtly  bearing  bring  no  high 
cash  value  in  the  modern  business  market,  they  may  smooth 
the  road  to  simple  happiness.  Moreover,  a  Spaniard  dearly 
loves  a  game  of  chance,  and  at  the  worst,  our  fortune-seeker 
will  have  thrown  his  dice.  His  may  seem  to  the  Yankee 
onlooker  but  a  losing  play,  and  yet  —  who  knows?  "He  who 
sings  frightens  away  his  ills."  God's  blessing  sails  in  summer 
clouds  as  lightly  as  in  costly  pleasure  yachts.  Out  of  a  shaft 
of  sunshine,  a  cup  of  chocolate,  and  a  cigarette,  this  Andalu- 
sian  immigrant,  though  stranded  in  an  East  Side  tenement,  may 
get  more  luxury  than  can  be  purchased  by  a  multi-millionaire. 


A  ROMAN  WELL  IN  ROXDA 


IX 

A    BULL-FIGHT 
"I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain."  — SHELLEY  :     Prometheus  Unbound. 

FROM  our  first  crossing  of  the  Pyrenees  we  were  im- 
pressed, even  beyond  our  expectation,  with  the  Spanish 
passion  for  the  bull-fight.      The  more  cultivated  Span- 
iards, to  be  sure,  are  usually  unwilling  to  admit  to  a  foreigner 
their  pleasure  in  the  pastime.      "  It  is  brutal,"  said  a  young 
physician  of  Madrid,  as  we  discussed  it.     "  It  is  a  very  painful 
thing  to  see,  certainly.      I  go,  myself,  only  two  or  three  times 
a  year,  when  the  proceeds  are  to  be  devoted  to  some  religious 
object  —  a  charity  or  other  holy  work." 

No  sight  is  more  common  in  streets  and  parks  than  that  of 
a  group  of  boys  playing  al  toro  —  one  urchin  charging  about 
with  sticks  fastened  to  his  shoulders  for  horns,  or  with  a 
pasteboard  bull's  head  pulled  over  his  ears,  and  others  waving 
scarlet  cloths  and  brandishing  improvised  swords  and  lances. 
It  is  said  that  in  fierce  Valencia  youths  have  sometimes  car- 
ried on  this  sport  with  knives  for  horns  and  swords,  the  spec- 
tators relishing  the  bloodshed  too  well  to  interfere.  Not  easily 
do  such  lads  as  these  forgive  the  little  king  for  crying,  like 
the  sensitive  child  he  is,  the  first  time  he  was  taken  to  the 
bull-ring. 

The  corridas  de  toros,  although  denounced  by  some  of  the 
i  113  , 


114  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

chief  voices  in  Spain,  are  held  almost  a  national  shibboleth. 
Loyal  supporters  of  the  queen  regent  will  add  to  their 
praises  the  sigh,  "  If  only  she  loved  the  bull-fight !  "  Cava- 
liers and  ladies  fair  reserve  their  choicest  attire  to  grace  these 
barbarities.  It  is  a  common  saying  that  a  Spaniard  will  sell 
his  shirt  to  buy  a  ticket  to  the  bull-ring,  but  whatever  the 
deficiencies  of  the  inner  costume,  the  dress  that  meets  the  eye 
is  brave  in  the  extreme.  It  is  recently  becoming  the  fashion 
for  caballeros,  especially  in  the  north  of  Spain,  to  discard  those 
very  fetching  cloaks  with  the  vivid  linings  —  cloaks  in  which 
Spaniards  muffle  their  faces  to  the  eyebrows  as  they  tread  the 
echoing  streets  of  cities  founded  some  thousand  or  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago-  But  for  a  good  old  Spanish  bull-fight,  the 
good  old  Spanish  costumes  are  out  in  force,  the  bright-hued 
capas  and  broad  sombreros,  and  for  the  ladies,  who  also  are 
beginning  to  discard  the  customary  black  mantilla  for  Parisian 
headgear,  the  exquisite  white  mantillas  of  early  times  and  the 
largest  and  most  richly  decorated  fans. 

It  is  in  such  places  as  the  grim  Roman  amphitheatre  of 
Italica,  whose  grass-grown  arena  has  flowed  so  red  with  mar- 
tyrdoms of  men  and  beasts,  that  one  despairs  most  of  Spanish 
ability  to  give  up  the  bull-fight.  It  is  in  the  air,  in  the  soil, 
in  the  blood;  a  national  institution,  an  hereditary  rage.  "But 
it  is  the  link  that  holds  your  country  bound  to  barbarism. 
The  rest  of  the  world  is  on  the  forward  move.  I  tell  you, 
the  continuance  of  the  bull-fight  means  the  ruin  of  Spain," 
urged  a  gigantic  young  German,  in  our  hearing,  on  his  Span- 
ish friend.  The  slight  figure  of  the  Madrileno  shook  with 
anger.  "  And  I  tell  you"  he  choked,  "  that  Spain  would 
rather  perish  with  the  bull-fight  than  survive  without  it." 


A  Bull-fight  115 

Isabel  la  Catblica,  who  earnestly  strove  to  put  down  these 
savage  contests,  wrote  at  last  to  her  Father  Confessor  that  the 
task  was  too  hard  for  her.  The  "Catholic  Kings"  could 
take  Granada,  unify  Spain,  establish  the  Inquisition,  expel 
Moors  and  Jews,  and  open  the  Americas ;  but  they  could  not 
abolish  bull-fighting.  Nor  was  Pius  V,  with  his  denial  of 
Christian  burial  to  all  who  fell  in  the  arena,  and  his  excom- 
munication for  princes  who  permitted  corridas  de  toros  in  their 
dominions,  more  successful.  The  papal  bull,  like  the  bulls  of 
flesh  and  blood,  was  inevitably  overthrown. 

Spanish  legend  likes  to  name  the  Cid  as  the  first  torero. 

"  Troth  it  goodly  was  and  pleasant 

To  behold  him  at  their  head, 
All  in  mail  on  Bavieca, 

And  to  hear  the  words  he  said." 

In  mediaeval  times  the  sport  was  not  without  chivalric 
features.  Knights  fought  for  honor,  where  professionals  now 
fight  for  pesetas.  When  the  great  Charles  killed  a  bull  with 
his  own  lance  in  honor  of  the  birth  of  Philip  II,  the  favor 
of  the  Austrian  dynasty  was  secured.  The  Bourbons  looked 
on  the  sport  more  coldly,  but  as  royalty  and  nobility  withdrew, 
the  people  pressed  to  the  fore.  Out  of  the  hardy  Spanish 
multitude  rose  a  series  of  masters,  —  Romero  the  shoemaker, 
who,  in  general,  gave  to  the  art  its  modern  form  ;  Martincho 
the  shepherd,  who,  seated  in  a  chair  with  his  feet  bound, 
would  await  the  charging  brute  ;  Candido,  who  would  face  the 
bull  in  full  career  and  escape  by  leaping  to  its  forehead  and 
over  its  back ;  Costillares,  who  invented  an  ingenious  way  of 
getting  in  the  death-stroke  j  the  famous  Pepe  Hillo,  who,  like 


n6  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

Candido,  perished  in  the  ring ;  a  second  Romero,  said  to  have 
killed  five  thousand  six  hundred  bulls;  Montes  the  brick-layer, 
and  a  bloody  band  of  followers.  Andalusia  is  —  alas!  —  the 
classic  soil  of  the  bull-fight,  as  every  peasant  knows,  and 
Seville  the  top  of  Andalusia. 

"  I  have  a  handsome  lover, 

Too  bold  to  fear  the  Devil, 
And  he's  the  best  torero 
In  all  the  town  of  Seville." 

The  extravagance  of  the  popular  enthusiasm  for  these 
fiestas  de  toros  is  often  ridiculed  on  the  stage,  where  dramas 
dealing  with  bull-fighting,  especially  if  they  bring  in  the 
heroes  of  the  arena,  Pepe  Hillo,  Romero,  Costillares,  are 
sure  to  take.  One  zarzuela  represents  a  rheumatic  old  afi- 
cionado, or  devotee  of  the  sport,  trying,  with  ludicrous  results, 
to  screw  his  courage  to  the  point  of  facing  the  bull.  Another 
spends  its  fun  on  a  Madrid  barber,  who  is  likewise  a  brain- 
turned  patron  of  the  ring.  Disregarding  the  shrill  protests  of 
his  wife,  he  lavishes  all  his  time,  love,  and  money  on  the 
corridas  and  encourages  his  daughter's  novio,  an  honest  young 
paper-hanger,  to  throw  over  his  trade  and  learn  to  torear. 
After  two  years  of  the  provincial  arenas,  the  aspirant,  nick- 
named in  the  ring  The  Baby,  has  nothing  but  torn  clothes 
and  bruises  to  show  for  his  career,  and  his  sweetheart,  eager 
to  recall  him  from  the  hazardous  profession,  vows  a  waxen 
bull,  large  as  life,  to  the  Virgin,  in  case  he  returns  to  paper- 
ing, with  its  humble  security  and  its  regularity  of  wages. 
Mary  hears.  On  that  great  occasion,  The  Baby's  debut  at 
Madrid,  the  barber,  who  has  just  been  lucky  in  the  lottery, 


A  Bull-fight  117 

rents  for  him  a  gorgeous  suit  of  second-hand  finery,  but  in 
the  Plaza  de  Toros  not  even  a  rose-and-silver  jacket  can  shield 
a  quaking  heart.  The  Baby  is  a  coward  born,  and  from  the 
first  rush  of  the  first  bull  comes  off  with  a  bloody  coxcomb, 
crying  out  his  shame  on  the  shoulder  of  his  Pilar,  who  shall 
henceforth  have  him  all  her  own. 

The  little  artist  and  I  went  into  Spain  with  the  firm  deter- 
mination not  to  patronize  the  bull-fight.  Half  our  resolution 
we  kept,  —  her  half.  Wherever  we  turned  we  encountered 
suggestions  of  the  corrida.  Spanish  newspapers,  even  the 
most  serious,  devote  columns  to  Los  Toros.  Bull-fighting  has 
its  special  publications,  as  El  Tori!  and  El  Toreo  Cbmico,  and 
its  special  dialect.  On  the  morning  after  a  holy  day  the 
newspapers  seem  actually  smeared  with  the  blood  of  beasts. 
In  the  bull-fight  season,  from  Easter  to  All  Saints,  corridas  are 
held  every  Sunday  in  all  the  cities  of  southern  and  central 
Spain,  while  the  smaller  towns  and  villages  butcher  as  many 
bulls  as  they  can  possibly  afford.  The  May  and  June  that  I 
passed  in  the  capital  gave  me  a  peculiar  abhorrence  of  the 
Madrid  Sunday,  —  that  feverish  excitement  everywhere;  the 
rattle  of  all  those  extra  omnibuses  and  cars  with  their  red- 
tasselled  mules  in  full  gallop  for  the  Plaza  de  Toros;  that  sense 
of  furious  struggle  and  mortal  agony  hanging  over  the  city  all 
through  the  slow,  hot  afternoon  ;  those  gaping  crowds  pressing 
to  greet  the  toreros,  a  gaudy-suited  Company,  on  their  tri- 
umphal return  in  open  carriages  ;  that  eager  discussion  of  the 
day's  tragedy  at  every  street-corner  and  from  seat  to  seat 
along  the  paseos,  even  at  our  own  dainty  dinner  table  and  on 
our  own  balconies  under  the  rebuking  stars.  At  this  strange 

o  o 

Sabbath  service  the  Infanta  Isabel,  whose  mother's  birth  was 


n8  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

celebrated  by  the  slaying  of  ninety-nine  bulls,  is  a  regular 
attendant,  occupying  the  royal  box  and  wearing  the  national 
colors.  A  French  bull-fighter,  visiting  the  Spanish  capital, 
was  invited  by  the  Infanta  to  an  audience  and  presented  with 
a  diamond  pin.  Not  even  the  public  mourning  for  Castelar 
could  induce  Madrid  to  forego  the  corrida  on  that  Sunday  just 
before  his  burial.  Past  the  very  senate-house  where  his  body 
lay  in  state  rolled  the  aristocratic  landaus,  whose  ladies  dis- 
played the  gala-wear  of  white  mantillas. 

But  the  Sundays  were  not  enough.  Every  Catholic  feast- 
day  called  for  its  sacrifice.  Granada  could  not  do  fitting 
honor  to  Corpus  Christi  with  less  than  three  "  magnificat 
corridas."  The  royal  saint  of  Aranjuez,  Fernando,  must  have 
his  pious  birthday  kept  by  an  orgy  of  blood.  At  the  fiesta  of 
Christ's  Ascension  all  Spain  was  busy  staining  his  earth  with 
the  life-stream  of  His  creatures.  Valladolid  was,  indeed, 
ashamed  to  have  torn  to  death  only  seven  horses,  but  Segovia 
rejoiced  in  an  expert  who  sat  at  his  work  and  killed  his  bulls 
with  drawing-room  ease.  Bordeaux  improved  the  occasion, 
with  aid  of  two  celebrated  Spanish  espadas,  by  opening  a 
French  Plaza  de  Toros,  and  Valencia  had  the  excitement  of 
sending  to  the  infirmary  one  torero  with  a  broken  leg  and 
another  with  a  crushed  foot.  Such  accidents  are  by  no 
means  uncommon.  A  matador  was  mortally  wounded  in 
the  Valencia  ring  that  summer,  a  bcnderlllero  was  trampled  at 
the  Escorial,  and  those  favorite  slabbers,  Reverte  and  Bombita, 
were  themselves  stabbed  by  avenging  horns. 

If  there  is  a  temporary  dearth  of  saint  days,  Spanish  inge- 
nuity will  nevertheless  find  excuse  for  corridas.  Bulls  must 
bleed  for  holy  charity,  —  for  hospitals,  foundling  asylums,  the 


A  Bull-fight  119 

families  of  workmen  out  on  strike.  If  the  French  squadron 
is  at  Cadiz,  hospitality  demands  a  bull-fight.  In  the  interests 
of  popular  education,  an  historical  corrida  was  arranged,  with 
instructed  toreros  to  display  the  special  styles  of  bull-killing 
that  have  prevailed  from  the  Cid  to  Guerrita.  Again,  as  a 
zoological  by-play,  an  elephant  was  pitted  against  the  bulls. 
This,  too,  had  precedent,  for  did  not  Philip  IV  once  keep  his 
birthday  by  turning  in  among  the  horned  herd  a  lion,  a  tiger, 
a  camel,  and  a  bear,  "  all  Noah's  ark  and  ^sop's  fables  "  ? 
A  bull  of  Xarama  vanquished  them  every  one  and  received 
the  gracious  reward  of  being  shot  dead  by  Philip  himself. 

It  was  on  a  Wednesday  afternoon,  at  one  of  the  three  grand 
corridas  of  the  Seville  Feria,  that  I  became  an  accomplice  in 
this  Spanish  crime.  Our  friends  in  Seville,  people  of  culti- 
vation and  liberal  views,  had  declared  from  the  first  that  we 
could  have  no  conception  of  Spanish  life  and  character  with- 
out sharing  in  the  national  fiesta.  "  We  ourselves  are  not 
enthusiasts,"  they  said.  "  In  fact,  we  disapprove  the  bull-fight. 
We  regard  it  as  demoralizing  to  the  community  at  large.  It  is, 
nevertheless,  a  thing  scientific,  artistic,  heroic,  Spanish.  Be- 
sides, a  large  portion  of  the  proceeds  goes  to  charity.  We  do 
not  attend  the  corridas,  except  now  and  then,  especially  when 
we  have  foreign  guests  who  wish  to  see  them.  Before  going 
they  all  regard  bull-fighting  as  you  do,  as  an  atrocity,  a 
barbarity,  but  invariably  they  return  from  the  Plaza  de 
Toros  filled  with  delight  and  admiration.  They  say  their 
previous  ideas  were  all  wrong,  that  it  is  a  noble  and  splen- 
did spectacle,  that  they  want  to  see  it  again  and  again,  that 
they  cannot  be  too  grateful  to  us  for  having  delivered  them 
from  prejudice." 


I2O  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

I  winced  at  the  word.  I  have  a  prejudice  against  being 
prejudiced,  and  to  the  bull-fight  I  went. 

My  yielding  came  too  late  for  securing  places  in  a  box  or 
in  any  part  of  the  house  from  which  one  can  make  exit  during 
the  performance.  Our  gory-looking  tickets  admitted  us  to 
the  uppermost  row  of  high,  whitewashed,  stone  seats  of  the 
circus  proper,  where  we  were  soon  inextricably  wedged  in  by 
the  human  mass  that  formed  around  and  below  us.  The 
hour  of  waiting  passed  merrily  enough.  The  open  amphi- 
theatre, jammed  to  its  full  capacity  of  fourteen  thousand,  lay 
half  in  brilliant  sunlight  and  half  in  creeping  shadow.  Above 
us  arched  the  glowing  blue  sky  of  Seville,  pricked  by  the  rosy 
Giralda,  and  from  time  to  time  a  strong-winged  bird  flew 
over.  The  great  arena,  strewn  with  yellow  sand,  was  en- 
closed by  a  dark  red  barrier  of  wood,  about  the  height  of  a 
man.  This  was  encircled,  at'  a  little  distance,  by  a  more 
secure  and  higher  wall  of  stone.  The  concourse  was  largely 
composed  of  men,  both  roughs  and  gentles,  but  there  was  no 
lack  of  ladies,  elegantly  dressed,  nor  of  children.  Two  sweet 
little  girls  in  white-feathered  hats  were  just  in  front  of  us, 
dancing  up  and  down  to  relieve  the  thrills  of  expectancy. 
White  mantillas,  pinned  with  jewels,  bent  from  the  boxes, 
while  the  daughters  of  the  people  dazzled  the  eye  with  their 
festival  display  of  Manila  shawls,  some  pure  white,  some  with 
colored  figures  on  a  white  ground  or  a  black,  and  some  a  rain- 
bow maze  of  capricious  needle-work.  The  rich-hued  blos- 
soms of  Andalusia  were  worn  in  the  hair  and  on  the  breast. 
The  sunny  side  of  the  circus  was  brightly  dotted  by  parasols, 
orange,  green,  vermilion,  and  fans  in  all  the  cardinal  colors 
twinkled  like  a  shivered  kaleidoscope.  The  men's  black  eyes 


A  Bull-fight  121 

glittered  under  those  broad  sombreros,  white  or  drab,  while 
they  puffed  their  cigarettes  with  unwonted  energy,  scattering 
the  ashes  in  soft  gray  showers  over  their  neighbors  on  the 
seats  below.  The  tumult  of  voices  had  a  keener  note  of 
excitement  than  I  had  yet  heard  in  Spain,  and  was  so  loud 
and  insistent  as  often  to  drown  the  clashing  music  of  the 
band.  The  cries  of  various  venders  swelled  the  mighty 
volume  of  noise.  Water-sellers  in  vivid  blouses  and 
sashes,  a  red  handkerchief  twisted  around  the  neck,  on  the 
left  shoulder  a  cushion  of  folded  carpeting  for  the  shapely, 
yellow-brown  jar,  and  a  smart  tin  tray,  holding  two  glasses, 
corded  to  the  belt,  went  pushing  through  the  throng.  Criers 
of  oranges,  newspapers,  crabs,  and  cockles,  almond  cakes, 
fans,  and  photographs  of  the  toreros,  strove  with  all  the  might 
of  their  lungs  against  the  universal  uproar. 

"  Crece  el  entusiasmo  ; 
Crece  la  alegria  ; 
Todo  es  algazara  ; 
Todo  es  confusion." 

A  tempest  of  applause  marked  the  entrance  in  a  box  above 
of  a  popular  prima  donna,  who  draped  a  resplendent  carmine 
scarf  over  the  railing  before  her  seat.  Immediately  the  com- 
plete circuit  of  the  rail  was  ablaze  with  color,  cloaks  and 
shawls  instantly  converting  themselves  into  tapestry. 

At  last  two  attendants  entered  the  arena,  walked  up  to  a 
hydrant  in  the  centre,  fastened  on  a  hose,  and  watered  the 
great  circle.  They  pulled  out  the  hydrant  and  raked  sand 
over  the  hole.  Simple  as  these  actions  were,  a  dreadful  quiet 
fell  on  all  the  circus. 


122  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

A  trumpet  blared.  Mounted  alguaciles,  or  police,  tricked 
out  in  ancient  Spanish  costume,  on  blue  saddles,  and  with  tall 
blue  plumes  in  their  hats,  rode  in  and  cleared  the  arena  of  all 
stragglers.  A  door  opened,  and  forth  issued  the  full  circus 
troupe,  making  a  fine  show  of  filigree,  and  urging  their 
wretched  old  nags  to  a  last  moment  of  equine  pride  and 
spirit.  Amid  roars  of  welcome,  they  flaunted  across  the 
sanded  enclosure  and  saluted  the  presiding  officer.  He 
dropped  the  key  of  the  toril,  that  dark  series  of  cells  into 
which  the  bulls  had  been  driven  some  hours  before.  An 
alguacil  caught  the  key  and  handed  it  to  the  torilero,  who  ran 
with  it  toward  a  second  door,  ominously  surmounted  by  a 
great  bull's  head.  Then  there  was  a  twinkling  of  the  pink 
stockings  and  black  sandals.  Most  of  the  gay  company 
leaped  the  barrier,  and  even  the  chulos  who  remained  in  the 
ring  placed  themselves  within  convenient  distance  of  the  rail. 
Some  of  the  picadores  galloped  out,  but  a  few  awaited  the 
coming  charge,  their  long  pikes  in  rest.  The  door  on  which 
all  eyes  were  bent  flew  open,  and  a  bellowing  red  bull  rushed 
in.  The  fierce,  bloodthirsty,  horrible  yell  that  greeted  him 
checked  his  impetuous  onset.  For  a  few  seconds  the  crea- 
ture stood  stock-still,  glaring  at  the  scene.  Heaven  knows 
what  he  thought  of  us.  He  had  had  five  perfect  years  of  life 
on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir,  —  one  baby  year  by  his 
mother's  side,  one  year  of  sportive  roving  with  his  mates, 
and  then  had  come  the  trial  of  his  valor.  He  had  found  all 
the  herdsmen  gathered  at  the  ranch  one  morning,  and,  never- 
theless, flattered  himself  that  he  had  evaded  those  hateful 
pikes,  garrochas,  that  were  always  goading  him  back  when  he 
would  sally  out  to  explore  the  great  green  world.  At  all 


A  Bull-fight  123 

events,  here  he  was  scampering  alone  across  the  plain.  But 
promptly  two  horsemen  were  at  his  heels,  and  one  of  these, 
planting  a  blunt'  garrocha  on  his  flank,  rolled  the  youngster 
over.  Up  again,  panting  with  surprise  and  indignation,  he  felt 
a  homesick  impulse  to  get  back  to  the  herd,  but  the  second 
horseman  was  full  in  his  path.  So  much  the  worse  for  the 
horseman  !  The  mettlesome  young  bull  lowered  his  horns 
and  charged  the  obstacle,  only  to  be  thrown  back  with  a 
smarting  shoulder.  If  he  had  yielded  then,  his  would  have 
been  the  quiet  yoke  and  the  long,  dull  life  of  labor,  but  he 
justified  his  breed  ;  he  charged  anew,  and  so  proved  himself 
worthy  of  the  arena.  Three  more  years  of  the  deep,  green 
river-reeds  and  the  sweet  Andalusian  sunshine,  three  years  of 
free,  far  range  and  glad  companionship,  and  then  the  end. 
His  days  had  been  exempt  from  burden  only  to  save  his  wild 
young  strength  for  the  final  tragedy.  One  summer  morning 
those  traitors  known  as  decoy-oxen,  with  bells  about  the 
neck,  came  trotting  into  the  herd.  The  noble  bulls,  now  at 
their  best  hour  of  life,  the  glory  of  their  kind,  welcomed  these 
cunning  guests  with  frank  delight  and  interest,  and  were  easily 
induced  to  follow  them  and  their  tinkling  bells  across  the 
rich  pastures,  along  rough  country  roads,  even  to  the  city 
itself  and  the  fatal  Plaza  de  Toros.  The  herdsmen  with  their 
ready  pikes  galloped  behind  the  drove,  and  everywhere  along 
the  way  peasants  and  townsfolk  would  fall  in  for  a  mile  or 
two  to  help  in  urging  the  excited  animals  onward  to  their 
cruel  doom. 

In  that  strange,  maddening  sea  of  faces,  that  hubbub 
of  hostile  voices,  the  bull,  as  soon  as  his  blinking  eyes 
had  effected  the  change  from  the  darkness  of  the  toril  to  the 


124  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

glaring  light  and  gaudy  colors  of  the  coliseum,  caught  sight  of 
a  horseman  with  the  familiar  pike.  Here  was  something 
that  he  recognized  and  hated.  Lowering  his  head,  the  fiery 
brute  dashed  with  a  bellow  at  that  tinselled  figure.  Ah,  the 
pike  had  never  been  so  sharp  before  !  It  went  deep  into  his 
shoulder,  but  could  not  hold  him  back.  He  plunged  his 
horns,  those  mighty  spears,  into  the  body  of  the  helpless, 
blindfolded  horse,  which  the  picador,  whose  jacket  was  well 
padded  and  whose  legs  were  cased  in  iron,  deliberately 
offered  to  his  wrath.  The  poor  horse  shrieked,  plunged, 
reeled,  and  fell,  the  cbulos  deftly  dragging  away  the  armored 
rider,  while  the  bull  ripped  and  trampled  that  quivering  car- 
cass, for  whose  torment  no  man  cared,  until  it  was  a  crim- 
son, formless  heap. 

Such  sickness  swept  over  me  that  I  did  not  know  what 
followed.  When  I  looked  again,  two  bloody  masses  that 
had  once  been  horses  disfigured  the  arena,  and  the  bull,  stuck 
all  over  like  a  hedge-hog  with  derisive,  many-colored  darts, 
had  gone  down  under  Guerrita's  steel. 

My  friends,  observing  with  concern  that  I  was  not  enjoy- 
ing myself  as  much  as  they  had  promised,  tried  to  divert  my 
attention  to  the  technical  features  of  their  ghastly  game. 
It  was  really,  they  explained,  a  drama  in  three  acts.  It  is 
the  part  of  the  mounted  picador  to  draw  off  the  first  rage  and 
vigor  of  the  bull,  weakening  him,  but  not  slaying  him,  by 
successive  wounds.  Then  the  jaunty  banderilleros,  the  stream- 
ers of  whose  darts  must  correspond  in  color  with  their 
costumes,  supply  a  picturesque  and  amusing  element,  a  comic 
interlude.  Finally  an  espada,  or  matador,  advances  alone  to 
despatch  the  tortured  creature.  The  death-blow  can  be  dealt; 


A  Bull-fight  125 

only  in  one  of  several  fashions,  established  by  rule  and  prece- 
dent, and  the  espada  who  is  startled  into  an  unprofessional 
thrust  reaps  a  bitter  harvest  of  scoffs  and  hisses. 

A  team  of  gayly-caparisoned  mules  with  jingling  bells  had 
meanwhile  trundled  away  the  mangled  bodies  of  the  slaugh- 
tered animals,  fresh  sand  had  been  thrown  over  the  places 
slippery  with  blood,  and  the  band  pealed  the  entrance  of  the 
second  bull.  This  was  a  demon,  black  as  a  coal,  with  a 
marvellous  pride  and  spirit  that  availed  him  nothing.  Horse 
after  horse  crashed  down  before  his  furious  rushes,  while  the 
circus,  drunk  with  glee,  shouted  for  more  victims  and  more 
and  more.  It  was  a  massacre.  At  last  our  hideous  greed 
was  glutted,  and  the  banderilleros  took  their  turn  in  baiting 
the  now  enfeebled  but  undaunted  bull.  Wildly  he  shook 
himself,  the  fore  half  of  his  body  already  a  flood  of  crimson, 
to  throw  off  the  ignominy  of  those  stinging  darts.  The 
chulos  fretted  and  fooled  him  with  their  waving  cloaks  of  red 
and  yellow,  till  at  last  the  creature  grew  hushed  and  sullen. 
A  strain  of  music  announced  that  the  matador  Fuentes  was 
asking  beneath  the  president's  box  permission  to  kill  the  bull. 
For  my  part,  I  gave  the  bull  permission  to  kill  the  man. 
Fuentes,  all  pranked  out  in  gray  and  gold,  holding  his  keen 
blade  behind  him  and  flourishing  a  scarlet  square  of  cloth, 
swinging  from  a  rod,  the  muleta,  advanced  upon  the  brute. 
That  bleeding  body  shook  with  a  new  access  of  rage,  and  the 
other  espadas  drew  near  and  stood  at  watch.  But  even  before 
a  blow  was  struck  the  splendid,  murdered  creature  sank  to  his 
knees,  staggered  up  once  more,  sank  again  with  crimson  foam 
upon  his  mouth,  and  the  music  clashed  jubilantly  while  Fuentes 
drove  the  weapon  home.  And  again  the  team  of  mules, 


126  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

with  foolish    tossing    of   their    bright-ribboned  heads,  jerked 
and  jolted  their  dead  kindred  off  the  scene. 

The  third  bull  galloped  in  with  a  roar  that  was  heard  far 
beyond  the  Plaza  and  gored  his  first  two  horses  so  promptly 
and  so  frightfully  that,  while  the  hapless  beasts  still  struggled 
in  their  agony,  the  amphitheatre  howled  with  delirious  joy. 
Several  capas  were  caught  away  on  those  swift,  effective  horns, 
and  one  picador  was  hurt.  But  the  rain  of  darts  teased  and 
bewildered  the  bull  to  the  point  of  stupidity,  although  he  was 
dangerous  yet. 

"  Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood  within  doth  boil  ; 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  the  turmoil. 
His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  snow  ; 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  brass  upon  the  foe." 

It  was  the  turn  of  Bombita,  a  dandy  in  dark-green  suit 
with  silver  trimmings  ;  but  his  comrades,  pale  and  intent,  stood 
not  far  off  and  from  time  to  time,  by  irritating  passes,  drew 
the  bull's  wrath  upon  themselves,  wearying  him  ever  more 
and  more,  until  at  last  Bombita  had  his  chance  to  plant  a 
telling  blow. 

Would  it  never  end  ?  Again  the  fatal  door  swung  open, 
and  the  fourth  bull  bounded  in  to  play  his  tragic  role.  He 
was  of  choicest  pedigree,  but  the  utter  strangeness  of  the 
scene  turned  his  taurine  wits.  He  made  distracted  and  aim- 
less rushes  hither  and  thither,  unheeding  the  provocations  of 
the  horsemen,  until  he  came  upon  the  spot  drenched  with  his 
predecessor's  life-blood.  He  pawed  away  the  hasty  covering 
of  sand,  sniffed  at  that  ominous  stain,  and  then,  throwing  up 
his  head  with  a  strange  bellow,  bolted  back  to  the  door  by 


A  Bull-fight  127 

which  he  had  entered,  and  turned  tail  to  the  arena.  The 
fourteen  thousand,  crazy  with  rage,  sprang  to  their  feet,  shook 
their  fists,  called  him  cow.  The  chulos  brandished  their  cloaks 
about  his  horns ;  men  leaned  over  from  the  barrier  and 
prodded  him  with  staffs.  Finally,  in  desperation,  he  turned 
on  the  nearest  horse,  rent  it  and  bore  it  down.  The  picador, 
once  set  up  by  the  chulos  upon  his  stiff,  iron-cased  legs,  his 
yellow  finery  streaked  with  red  from  his  lacerated  horse, 
tugged  savagely  at  the  bridle  to  force  that  dying  creature  to 
a  second  stand.  One  attendant  wrenched  it  by  the  tail, 
another  beat  it  viciously  over  the  face  ;  the  all-enduring  beast, 
his  entrails  swinging  from  a  crimson  gash,  struggled  to  his 
feet.  The  picador  mounted,  drove  in  the  spurs,  and  the  horse, 
rocking  and  pitching,  accomplished  a  few  blind  paces  toward 
those  dripping  horns  that  horribly  awaited  him.  But  to  the 
amazement  and  scandal  of  the  aficionados,  the  circus  raised  a 
cry  of  protest,  and  the  discomfited  rider  sprang  down  in 
the  very  moment  when  his  horse  fell  to  rise  no  more.  A 
chulo,  at  his  leisurely  convenience,  quieted  those  kicking  hoofs 
by  a  stab,  —  the  one  drop  of  mercy  in  that  ocean  of  human 
outrage. 

Straw-colored  darts,  wine-colored  darts,  sky-colored  darts, 
were  pricking  the  bull  to  frenzy.  I  wished  he  had  any  half- 
dozen  of  his  enemies  in  a  clear  pasture.  Those  glittering 
dragon-flies  were  always  just  out  of  reach,  but  he  stumbled 
on  the  sodden  shape  of  the  unhappy  horse  and  tossed  it  again 
and  again,  making  the  poor  carcass  fling  up  its  head  and  arch 
its  neck  in  ghastly  mockery  of  life.  Cowardice  avails  a  bull 
as  little  as  courage.  This  sorry  fighter  had  been  deeply 
pierced  by  the  garrochas,  and  now,  as  he  galloped  clumsily 


128  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways  * 

about  the  arena,  in  unavailing  efforts  to  escape  from  his 
tormentors,  his  violent,  foolish  plunges  made  the  dark  blood 
flow  the  faster.  It  was  Guerrita,  Guerrita  the  adored,  Guer- 
rita  in  gold-laced  jacket  and  violet  trousers,  who  struck  the 
ultimate  blow,  and  so  cleverly  that  sombreros  and  cigarettes, 
oranges  and  pocket-flasks,  came  raining,  amid  furies  of  applause, 
into  the  arena.  This  was  such  a  proud  moment  as  he  had 
dreamed  of  long  ago  in  the  Cordova  slaughter-house,  when, 
the  little  son  of  the  slaughter-house  porter,  he  had  stolen  from 
his  bed  at  midnight  to  play  al  toro  with  the  calves,  and  then  and 
there  had  solemnly  dedicated  himself  to  the  glorious  profession. 
Now  the  master  of  his  art  and  the  idol  of  all  Spain,  easily  making 
his  seventy-five  thousand  dollars  a  year,  earning,  in  fact,  three 
thousand  on  that  single  afternoon,  Guerrita  little  foresaw  that 
with  the  coming  autumn  he  should  go  on  pilgrimage  to  La 
Virgen  del  Pilar,  and  before  her  beloved  shrine  at  Saragossa 
cut  off  his  bull-fighter's  pigtail  and  renounce  the  ring. 

The  fifth  bull  was  black  as  ebony.  He  dashed  fearlessly 
into  the  arena,  charged  and  wheeled  and  tossed  his  horns  in 
the  splendor  of  his  strength,  sending  every  red-vested  chulo 
scrambling  over  the  wall.  Then  he  backed  to  the  middle  of 
the  sanded  circle,  snorting  and  pawing  the  earth.  Another 
instant,  and  the  nearest  horse  and  rider  went  crashing  against 
the  barrier.  The  picador,  with  a  bruised  face,  forced  up  the 
gasping  horse,  mounted  and  rode  it,  the  beast  treading  out  its 
entrails  as  it  went,  to  meet  a  second  charge.  But  the  sway- 
ing horse  fell  dead  before  it  reached  those  lowered  horns 
again.  The  next  picador,  too,  went  down  heavily  under  his 
jade  and  received  an  awkward  sprain.  He  mounted  once 
more,to  show  that  he  could,  and  the  circus  cheered  him,  but 


A  Bull-fight  129 

his  horse,  torn  to  death,  could  not  bear  his  weight.  He  gave 
it  an  angry  push  with  the  foot  as  he  left  it  writhing  in  its  life- 
blood.  This  whirlwind  of  a  bull,  who  shook  off  all  but  one 
of  the  banderillas^  mortified  even  the  matadores.  Disregarding 
the  red  rag,  he  rushed  at  Fuentes  himself.  The  nimble  torero 
leapt  aside,  but  the  bull's  horn  struck  his  sword  and  sent  it 
spinning  half  across  the  arena.  His  comrades  immediately 
ran,  with  waving  capas  and  bright  steel,  to  his  aid,  but  that 
too  intelligent  bull,  fighting  for  his  life,  kept  his  foes  at  bay 
until  the  circus  hissed  with  impatience.  The  toreros,  visibly 
nettled,  gathered  closer  and  closer,  but  had  to  play  that  death- 
game  cautiously.  This  bull  was  dangerous.  The  coliseum 
found  him  tedious.  He  took  too  long  in  dying.  Stabbed 
again  and  again  and  again,  he  yet  agonized  to  his  feet  and 
shook  those  crimsoned  horns  at  his  tormentors,  who  still  hung 
back.  It  really  was  dull.  The  matadores  buzzed  about  him, 
worrying  his  dying  sight,  but  he  stood  sullen  in  their  midst, 
refusing  the  charges  to  which  they  tempted  him,  guarding  his 
last  drops  of  strength,  and,  cardinal  offence  in  a  toro,  holding 
his  head  too  high  for  the  professional  stroke.  His  vital  force 
was  ebbing.  Red  foam  dripped  from  his  mouth.  That 
weary  hoof  no  longer  pawed  the  earth.  The  people  shouted 
insults  even  to  their  pet  Guerrita,  but  Guerrita,  like  the  rest, 
stood  baffled.  At  last  that  formidable  figure,  no  longer  black, 
but  a  red  glaze  of  blood  and  sweat  and  foam,  fell  in  a  sudden 
convulsion.  Then  his  valiant  murderers  sprang  upon  him, 
the  stabs  came  thick  and  fast,  and  the  jingling  mule-team 
pranced  in  to  form  his  funeral  cortege. 

One  more,  —  the  sixth.      I  was  long  past  indignation,  past 
any  acuteness  of  pain,  simply  sickened  through  body  and  soul 


130  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

and  unutterably  wearied  with  this  hideous  monotony  of 
slaughter.  The  last  bull,  a  white  star  shining  on  his  black 
forehead,  tore  into  the  arena,  raced  all  about  the  circle,  and 
struck  with  amazing  rapidity  wherever  he  saw  a  foe.  Three 
horses  were  down,  were  up  again,  and  were  forced,  all  with 
trailing  intestines,  to  a  second  charge.  The  bull  flashed  like 
a  thunderbolt  from  one  to  another,  rending  and  digging  with 
his  savage  horns,  until  three  mangled  bodies  writhed  on  the 
reddened  sand,  and  stabbers  watched  their  chances  to  run 
forward  and  quiet  with  the  knife  the  horrible  beating  of  those 
hoofs  in  air.  The  circus  yelled  delight.  It  had  all  been  the 
work  of  a  moment,  —  a  brave  bull,  a  great  sensation!  For 
the  performers  it  was  rather  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 
Those  disembowelled  carcasses  cluttered  up  the  arena.  The 
scattered  entrails  were  slippery  under  foot.  The  dart-throw- 
ers hastened  to  the  next  act  of  the  tragedy.  Theirs  was  a 
subtlety  too  much  for  the  fury-fuddled  wits  of  that  mighty, 
blundering  brute.  He  galloped  to  and  fro,  spending  his 
strength  in  useless  charges  and,  a  score  of  times,  ignoring  the 
men  to  hook  wildly  at  their  brandished  strips  of  colored  cloth. 
The  darts  had  been  planted  and  he  was  losing  blood.  The 
matador  went  to  his  work,  but  the  uncivil  bull  did  not  make 
it  easy  for  him.  Bombita  could  not  get  in  a  handsome  blow. 
The  house  began  to  hoot  and  taunt.  A  stentorian  voice 
called  to  him  to  "  kill  that  bull  to-morrow."  Exasperated  by 
the  laughter  that  greeted  this  sally,  Bombita  drove  his  Toledo 
blade  to  its  mark.  While  the  final  scene  of  general  stabbing 
was  going  on,  boys,  men,  even  women  vaulted  into  the  arena, 
played  over  again  with  one  another  the  more  memorable  in- 
cidents, ran  to  inspect  those  shapeless  carcasses  of  what  God 


THE  GIRAI.DA 


A  Bull-fight  131 

created  horses,  and  escorted  the  funeral  train  of  the  bull,  one 
small  boy  riding  in  gleeful  triumph  on  top  of  the  great  black 
body,  harmless  and  still  at  last.  As  we  passed  out  by  a  hall- 
way where  the  dead  animals  had  been  dragged,  we  had  to 
pick  our  way  through  pools  of  blood  and  clots  of  entrails. 
Thus  by  the  road  of  the  shambles  we  came  forth  from  hell. 

"  I  do  not  understand  at  all,"  sincerely  protested  my  Span- 
ish host,  disconcerted  by  the  continued  nausea  and  horror  of 
red  dreams  which,  justly  enough,  pursued  me  for  weeks  after. 
"It  was  a  very  favorable  corrida  for  a  beginner,  —  no  seri- 
ous accident,  no  use  of  the  fire-darts,  no  houghing  of  the 
bull  with  the  demi-lune,  nothing  objectionable.  And,  after 
all,  animals  are  only  animals  ;  they  are  not  Christians." 

"  Who  were  the  Christians  in  that  circus  ? "  I  asked. 
"  How  could  devils  have  been  worse  than  we  ?  " 

He  half  glanced  toward  the  morning  paper  but  was  too 
kindly  to  speak  his  thought.  It  was  not  necessary.  I  had 
read  the  paper,  which  gave  half  a  column  to  a  detailed  account 
of  a  recent  lynching,  with  torture,  in  the  United  States. 


X 


GYPSIES 

*'  '  Life  is  sweet,  brother.' 

"  '  Do  you  think  so  ?  ' 

'''Think  so  !  —  There's  night  and  day,  brother,  both  sweet  things;  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  brother,  all  sweet  things ;  there's  likewise  a  wind  on  the  heath.  Life  is 
very  sweet,  brother  ;  who  would  wish  to  die  ?  ' 

"  'I  would  wish  to  die.' 

"  '  You  talk  like  a  gorgio  —  which  is  the  same  as  talking  like  a  fool  —  were  you  a 
Rommany  Chal  you  would  talk  wiser.  Wish  to  die,  indeed  !  —  A  Rommany  Chal 
would  wish  to  live  forever  !  ' 

"  '  In  sickness,  Jasper  ?  * 

"  '  There's  the  sun  and  stars,  brother.* 

"  '  In  blindness,  Jasper  ?  ' 

"  '  There's  the  wind  on  the  heath,  brother ;  if  I  could  only  feel  that,  I  would  gladly 
live  forever.  Dosta,  we'll  now  go  to  the  tents  and  put  on  the  gloves  j  and  I'll  try 
to  make  you  feel  what  a  sweet  thing  it  is  to  be  alive,  brother  ! '  ' 

—  GEORGE  BORROW. 

NO    foreigner    has   known    the    Zingali    better    than 
George   Borrow,  the  linguistic    Englishman,   who 
could    speak   Rommany    so   well   that   gypsies   all 
over  Europe  took  him  for  a  brother.       In  the  employ  of  the 
English  Bible  Society,  he  spent  some  five  adventurous  years 
in  Spain,  wandering  through  the  wilds  and  sharing  the  life  of 
shepherds,  muleteers,  even  the   fierce  gitanos.       As   he   found 
the  Spanish  gypsies  half  a  century  ago,  so,  in  essentials,  are 
they  still — the   men  jockeys,  tinkers,  and  blacksmiths,  the 

132 


Gypsies  133 

women  fortune  tellers  and  dancers,  the  children  the  most 
shameless  little  beggars  of  all  the  Peninsula.  Yet  there  has 
been  an  improvement. 

The  gitanos  are  not  such  ruffians  as  of  old,  nor  even  such 
arrant  thieves,  although  it  would  still  be  unwise  to  trust  them 
within  call  of  temptation. 

"  There  runs  a  swine  down  yonder  hill, 

As  fast  as  e'er  he  can, 
And  as  he  runs  he  crieth  still, 
'  Come,  steal  me,  Gypsyman.' ' 

Still  more  compromising  is  the  Christmas  carol :  — 

"Into  the  porch  of  Bethlehem 

Have  crept  the  gypsies  wild, 
And  they  have  stolen  the  swaddling  clothes 
Of  the  new-born  Holy  Child. 

"  Oh,  those  swarthy  gypsies  ! 

What  won't  the  rascals  dare  ? 
They  have  not  left  the  Christ  Child 
A  single  shred  to  wear." 

There  are  wealthy  gypsies,  whose  wives  and  daughters 
go  arrayed  with  the  utmost  elegance  of  fashion,  in  several 
Spanish  cities.  Seville  has  her  gypsy  lawyer,  but  her  gypsy 
bull-fighter,  who  died  two  years  ago,  was  held  to  reflect  even 
greater  credit  on  the  parent  stock. 

By  law  the  gypsies  are  now  established  as  Spaniards, 
with  full  claim  to  Spanish  rights  and  privileges  —  Nuevos 
Castellanos,  as  they  have  been  called  since  the  day  when 
Spain  bethought  her  of  these  Ishmaels  as  "  food  for  powder  " 


Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

and  subjected  them  to  the  regular  military  draft.  Even  in 
Granada,  where  the  gypsy  community  still  lives  in  semi- 
barbarism,  there  are  hopeful  signs.  The  gitanos  drive  a  sharp 
trade  in  donkeys,  but  their  forge  fires,  gleaming  far  up  the 
Albaicin  in  the  evening,  testify  to  their  industry.  The 
recent  opening  by  the  municipality  of  schools  for  the  gypsy 
children  has  already  wrought  a  marked  change  for  the  better. 
Some  half-dozen  dirty  little  palms,  outstretched  for  clnco 
centimos,  pester  the  stranger  to-day  where  scores  used  to  tor- 
ment him,  and  the  mothers  take  pride  in  the  literary  accom- 
plishments of  their  tawny  broods.  On  one  occasion,  when, 
having,  as  the  Spanish  say,  "clean  pockets,"  I  firmly  declined 
to  see  a  small  gypsy  girl  dance  or  hear  her  sing,  the  mother 
assured  me,  as  a  last  greedy  expedient,  that  "  the  child  could 
pray." 

On  the  Alhambra  hill  the  gypsies,  who  scent  tourists  from 
afar  and  troop  thither,  on  the  track  of  newly  arrived  parties, 
like  wolves  to  their  banquet,  are  picturesque  figures  enough, 
the  men  in  peaked  hats,  spangled  jackets,  and  sashes  of  red 
silk,  the  women  with  bright  handkerchiefs  bound  over  their 
raven  hair,  large  silver  earrings,  gay  bodices,  and  short, 
flounced  petticoats. 

There  is  one  old  gitano,  in  resplendent  attire,  who  haunts 
the  Alhambra  doors  and  introduces  himself  to  visitors,  with 
bows  queerly  compounded  of  condescension  and  supplication, 
as  the  King  of  the  Gypsies,  modestly  offering  his  photograph 
for  a  peseta.  If  you  turn  to  your  attendant  Spaniard  and  ask, 
sotto  voce,  "  But  is  this  truly  the  Gypsy  King  ?  "  you  will 
receive  a  prompt  affirmative,  while  the  quick-witted  old 
masquerader  strikes  a  royal  attitude,  rolls  his  eyes  prodigiously, 


Gypsies  135 

and  twirls  his  three-cornered  hat  at  arm's  length  above  his 
head,  until  its  tinsel  ornaments  sparkle  like  crown  jewels. 
But  no  sooner  is  his  Majesty  well  out  of  hearing  than  your 
guide  hastens  to  eat  his  own  words.  "  No,  no,  no  !  He  is 
not  the  King  of  the  Gypsies,  but  he  is  a  gypsy,  yes,  and  it  is 
better  not  to  have  his  ill  will." 

Whether  this  hardened  pretender  could  cast  the  evil  eye  or 
not,  we  never  knew,  for  having  bought  two  of  his  pictures  at 
the  first  onset,  we  suffered  ever  afterward  the  sunshine  of  his 
favor.  In  fact  we  often  made  a  wide  detour  rather  than  pass 
him  on  the  hill,  for  he  would  spring  to  his  feet  at  our  remotest 
approach  and  stand  bowing  like  an  image  of  perpetual  motion, 
his  hat  brandished  high  in  air,  until  our  utmost  in  the  way 
of  answering  nods  and  smiles  seemed  by  contrast  sheer 
democratic  incivility. 

The  swarthy  faces  and  glittering  eyes  of  the  gypsies  meet 
one  everywhere  in  the  Granada  streets,  but  to  see  them  in 
their  own  precinct  it  is  necessary  to  take  off  your  watch, 
empty  your  pockets  of  all  but  small  silver  and  coppers,  and 
go  to  the  Albaicin.  This  hill,  parted  from  the  Alhambra  by 
the  deep  ravine  of  the  gold-bearing  Darro,  was  in  Moorish 
times  the  chosen  residence  of  the  aristocracy.  Still  Arabian 
arches  span  the  gorge,  and  many  of  the  toppling  old  houses 
that  lean  over  the  swift,  mountain-born  current,  shabby  as 
they  look  to  the  passer-by,  are  beautiful  within  with  arabesque 
and  fretwork,  carven  niches,  delicate  columns  and  open 
patios,  where  fountains  still  gush  and  orange  blossoms  still 
shed  fragrance.  Such  degenerate  palaces  are  often  occupied 
by  the  better  class  of  gypsies,  those  who  traffic  in  horses,  as 
well  as  in  donkeys,  while  their  women,  grouped  in  the  courts 


136  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

and  doorways,  embroider  with  rainbow  wools,  in  all  fantastic 
patterns,  the  stout  mantles  of  the  Andalusian  mountaineers. 

As  we  climbed  the  Albaicin,  fronting  as  it  does  the  hill  of 
the  Alhambra,  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  view  at  first 
claimed  all  our  power  of  seeing.  Below  was  the  gray  sweep 
of  the  city  and  beyond  the  fruitful  plain  of  Granada,  its  vivid 
green  shading  into  a  far-off  dimness  like  the  sea.  Just  oppo- 
site us  rose  the  fortress  of  the  Alhambra,  a  proud  though 
broken  girdle  of  walls  and  towers,  while  in  the  background 
soared  the  dazzling  snow  peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  glisten- 
ing with  unbearable  splendor  under  the  intense  blue  of  the 
Andalusian  sky. 

In  the  midst  of  our  rhapsodies  I  became  aware  of  a  shrill 
voice  at  my  feet,  a  persistent  tug  at  my  skirts,  and  reluctantly 
dropped  my  eyes  on  a  comely  little  gypsy  lass  lying  along  a 
sunny  ledge  and  imperiously  demanding  cinco  centimos. 

"  Now  what  would  you  do  with  cinco  centimos  if  you  had 
them  ?  " 

With  the  universal  beggar  gesture  she  pointed  to  her 
mouth.  "  Buy  a  rusk.  I  am  starving.  I  am  already  dead 
of  hunger." 

Crossing  her  hands  upon  her  breast,  she  closed  her  eyes  in 
token  of  her  mortal  extremity,  but  instantly  flashed  them  open 
again  to  note  the  effect. 

"  Your  cheeks  are  not  the  cheeks  of  famine." 

At  a  breath  the  young  sorceress  sucked  them  in  and  suc- 
ceeded, plump  little  person  though  she  was,  in  looking  so 
haggard  and  so  woe-begone  that  our  political  economy  broke 
down  in  laughter,  and  we  gave  her  the  coveted  cent  in  return 
for  her  transformation  act. 


Gypsies  137 

Off  she  darted,  with  her  wild  locks  flying  in  the  wind,  and 
was  back  in  a  twinkling,  a  circlet  of  bread  suspended  from 
her  arm.  She  tripped  along  beside  us  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon,  using  the  rusk  sometimes  as  a  hoop,  sometimes  as 
a  crown,  sometimes  as  a  peephole.  She  tossed  it,  sang 
through  it,  dandled  it,  stroked  it,  and  occasionally,  while  the 
bread  approximated  more  and  more  in  hue  to  her  own  gypsy 
complexion,  took  an  artistic  nibble,  dotting  the  surface  with  a 
symmetrical  curve  of  bites.  It  was  not  mere  food  to  her ;  it 
was  luxury,  it  was  mirth  —  like  a  Lord  Mayor's  feast  or  a 
Delmonico  breakfast. 

Following  the  Camino  del  Sacra  Monte,  marked  by  many 
crosses,  our  attention  was  more  and  more  withdrawn  from 
the  majestic  views  spread  out  before  us  to  the  gypsies,  whose 
cave  dwellings  lined  the  way.  Burrowing  into  the  earth,  from 
the  midst  of  thickets  of  prickly  pear,  are  these  strange  abodes, 
whose  chimneys  rise  abruptly  out  of  the  green  surface  of  the 
hillside.  Dens  as  they  are,  the  best  of  them  possess  some 
decencies.  Flaps  of  cloth  serve  them  for  doors,  their  peer- 
ing fronts  are  whitewashed,  they  are  furnished  with  a  stool  or 
two,  a  box  of  tools  or  clothing,  a  few  water-jars,  a  guitar,  and, 
in  the  farther  end  of  the  lair,  a  family  bedstead,  or  more  often 
a  heap  of  dirty  sheepskins.  Cooking  tins,  bottles,  saddles, 
and  coils  of  rope  hang  on  the  rough  walls ;  there  may  be  a 
shelf  of  amulets  and  toys  for  sale,  and  the  indispensable  pot 
of  puchero  simmers  over  a  handful  of  fire. 

Out  from  these  savage  homes  swarmed  a  whining,  coaxing, 
importunate  horde  of  sly-eyed  women  and  an  impish  rabble 
of  children.  Young  and  old  clutched  at  us  with  unclean 
hands,  clung  to  us  with  sinewy  brown  arms,  begged,  flattered, 


138  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

demanded,  and  dragged  us  bodily  into  their  hill.  We  felt  as 
if  we  had  gone  back  to  German  fairy  tales  and  had  fallen  into 
the  evil  grip  of  the  gnomes.  Hardly  could  escort,  carriage, 
and  a  reckless  rain  of  coppers  break  the  spell.  We  were 
forced  to  taste  their  repulsive  messes,  to  cross  witch  palms 
with  silver,  to  buy  even  the  roadside  weeds  the  urchins 
gathered  before  our  eyes.  We  were  birds  for  the  plucking, 
sheep  for  the  shearing.  Only  when  we  had  turned  our 
pockets  inside  out  to  show  that  we  had  not  a  "  little  dog " 
left,  were  we  suffered  to  go  free,  followed,  doubtless,  by  the 
curses  of  Egypt,  because  we  had  yielded  such  poor  picking. 

In  Seville,  too,  the  gypsies  have  their  own  quarter,  but  in  pro- 
portion as  Seville  is  a  gentler  city  than  Granada,  so  are  the  looks 
and  manners  of  her  gypsy  population  more  attractive.  Cross- 
ing the  yellow  Guadalquivir  by  the  bridge  of  Isabel  Segunda, 
we  come  immediately  on  the  picturesque,  dark-visaged  figures, 
with  their  uneffaced  suggestion  of  wildness,  of  freedom,  of 
traditions  apart  from  the  common  humdrum  of  humanity. 
The  boy,  clad  in  one  fluttering  garment,  who  is  perilously 
balancing  his  slender  brown  body  on  the  iron  rail ;  the  bright- 
kerchiefed  young  mother,  thrusting  her  tiny  black  bantling  into 
our  faces ;  the  silent,  swarthy  men  who  lean  along  the  bridge 
side,  lithe  even  in  their  lounging  ;  —  all  have  a  latent  fierceness 
in  their  look.  Their  eyes  are  keen  as  knives  —  strange  eyes, 
whose  glitter  masks  the  depth.  But  as  we  go  on  into  the 
potter's  suburb  of  Triana,  into  the  thick  of  the  gypsy  life,  we 
are  not  more  seriously  molested  than  by  the  continual  beg- 
ging, nor  is  this  the  rough,  imperious  begging  of  Granada;  a 
flavor  of  Sevillian  grace  and  fun  has  passed  upon  it.  Offer 
this  bush-headed  lad,  pleading  starvation,  the  orange  he  has 


Gypsies  139 

just  tossed  away,  and  he  will  double  up  over  the  joke  and 
take  to  his  little  bare  heels.  Give  to  the  fawning  sibyl  who 
insists  on  telling  your  fortune  a  red  rose  for  her  hair,  and  the 
chances  are  that  she  will  rest  content.  But  the  time  to  see 
the  gypsies  in  their  glory  is  during  the  three  days  and  nights 
of  the  Feria. 

On  the  eighteenth,  nineteenth,  and  twentieth  of  April 
Seville  annually  keeps,  on  the  Prado  de  San  Sebastian,  where 
the  Inquisition  used  to  light  its  fires,  the  blithest  of  spring 
festivals.  The  Feria  is  a  fair,  but  much  more  than  a  fair. 
There  are  droves  upon  droves  of  horses,  donkeys,  cattle, 
goats,  sheep,  and  pigs.  There  are  rows  upon  rows  of  booths 
with  toys,  booths  with  nuts  and  candies,  booths  with  the  gay- 
handled  Albacete  knives  and  daggers.  There  are  baskets 
upon  baskets  of  rainbow  fans,  mimic  fighting  cocks,  oranges, 
and  other  cheap  Sevillian  specialties.  Cooling  drinks  are  on 
sale  at  every  turn,  but  there  is  no  drunkenness.  There  are 
thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  people  in  motion,  but  there 
is  no  bustling,  no  elbowing,  no  rudeness  of  pressure.  Dainty 
little  children  wander  alone  in  that  tremendous  throng.  The 
order  and  tranquillity  that  prevail  by  day  and  night  in  this 
multitude  of  merrymakers  render  it  possible  for  the  Feria  to 
be  what  it  is.  For  during  these  enchanted  April  hours  even 
the  noblest  families  of  Seville  come  forth  from  the  proud 
seclusion  of  their  patios  and  live  in  casetas,  little  rustic  houses 
that  are  scarcely  more  than  open  tents,  exposed  to  the  gaze 
of  every  passer-by. 

A  lofty  bridge,  crossed  by  two  broad  flights  of  stairs  and 
tapering  to  a  tower,  stands  at  the  intersection  of  the  three 
chief  Feria  avenues.  The  bridge  is  brilliantly  illuminated  by 


140  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

night,  and  close-set  globes  of  gas,  looped  on  running  tubes 
along  both  sides  of  these  three  festal  streets,  pour  floods  of 
light  into  the  casetas.  Chinese  lanterns  in  red  and  yellow 
abound,  and  lines  of  banner-staffs  flaunt  the  Spanish  colors. 
The  casetas  are  usually  constructed  of  white  canvas  on  a 
framework  of  light-brown  fretwood,  though  the  materials  are 
sometimes  more  durable. 

Clubhouses  are  large  and  elaborate,  and  individual  taste 
varies  the  aspect  of  the  private  tents.  The  more  important 
families  of  Seville  own  their  casetas,  but  in  general  these  airy 
abodes  are  rented  from  year  to  year,  the  price  for  the  three 
days  of  the  Feria  ranging  from  twenty-five  dollars  on  the 
central  avenue  to  five  dollars  for  the  more  remote  houselets 
on  the  two  streets  that  branch  off  at  right  angles.  The 
numerous  byways  are  occupied  by  cafes,  booths,  penny 
shows,  and  the  like,  the  gypsies  having  one  side  of  a  lane  to 
themselves.  The  other  side  is  given  over  to  circus-rings, 
merry-go-rounds,  cradle-swings  marked  "  For  Havana,"  "  For 
Manila,"  "  For  Madrid,"  dancing  dwarfs,  braying  bands, 
caged  bulls,  and  tents  provided  with  peepholes  through  which 
one  may  see  "The  Glorious  Victory  of  the  Spanish  Troops 
at  Santiago,"  and  other  surprising  panoramas  of  the  recent 
war.  These  are  in  high  favor  with  soldiers  and  small  boys, 
whose  black  heads  bump  together  at  every  aperture. 

Such  attractions  are  especially  potent  over  the  country 
folk,  who  come  jogging  into  Seville  during  fair  time,  mounted 
two  or  three  together  on  jaded  horses,  sorry  mules,  and  even  on 
indignant  little  donkeys.  Their  peasant  costumes  add  richly 
to  the  charm  of  the  spectacle,  and  their  simplicity  makes 
them  an  easy  spoil  for  the  canny  folk  of  Egypt.  You  see 


Gypsies  141 

them  especially  in  the  cool  of  the  early  morning,  when  trade 
in  cattle  is  at  its  liveliest.  Ten  to  one  they  have  been  fleeced 
already  by  the  gitanos,  who,  out  in  the  great  meadow  where 
the  live-stock  is  exposed  for  sale,  have  their  own  corner  for 
u  dead  donkeys,"  as  the  Sevillians  term  the  decrepit  old  beasts 
that  have  been  magically  spruced  up  for  the  occasion.  Cer- 
vantes has  his  jest  at  "a  gypsy's  ass,  with  quicksilver  in  its 
ears." 

Then  comes  the  turn  of  the  gitanas,  looking  their  prettiest, 
with  roses  in  hair,  and  over  the  shoulders  those  captivating 
black  silk  shawls  embroidered  in  many-colored  patterns  of 
birds  and  flowers.  The  younger  enchantresses  keep  watch, 
each  in  front  of  her  family  tent,  before  whose  parted  curtains 
the  more  ill-favored  women  of  the  household  are  busy  frying 
the  crisp  brown  bunuelos,  a  species  of  doughnut  dear  to  the 
Spanish  tooth. 

As  you  loiter  down  the  lane,  be  you  wide-eyed  shepherd 
from  the  provinces,  or  elegant  grandee  from  Madrid,  or 
haughty  foreigner  from  London  or  Vienna,  the  sturdy  sirens 
rush  upon  you,  seize  you  by  arm  or  neck,  and  by  main  force 
tug  you  into  their  tented  prisons,  from  which  you  must  gnaw 
your  way  out  through  a  heap  of  hot  bunuelos.  Or  you  may 
compromise  on  a  cup  of  Spanish  chocolate,  flavored  with 
cinnamon  and  thick  as  flannel,  or  perhaps  win  your  liberty 
by  gulping  down  a  cupful  of  warm  goat's  milk.  The  prices 
shock  the  portliest  purses,  but  at  your  first  faint  sign  of  protest 
a  gathering  mob  of  gypsies  presses  close  with  jeers  and  hisses, 
and  even  the  frying-pan  sputters  contempt. 

The  Feria  presents  its  most  quiet  aspect  during  the  after- 
noon. Some  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  of  the  promenaders 


142  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

have  been  drawn  off  by  the  superior  attraction  of  the  bull- 
fight, and  others  have  retired  for  their  siestas.  Yet  there  are 
thousands  left.  This  is  a  grand  time  for  the  children,  who 
disport  themselves  in  the  avenues  with  whistles,  swords, 
balls,  kites,  and  other  trophies  from  the  toy  booths.  These 
little  people  are  exquisitely  dressed,  often  in  the  old  Andalu- 
sian  costumes,  and  tiny  lad  and  tiny  lass,  of  aristocratic  look 
and  bearing,  may  be  seen  tripping  together  through  one  of  the 
graceful  national  dances  in  the  midst  of  a  sidewalk  throng. 
The  toddlers,  too,  are  out,  under  charge  of  happy  nursemaids. 

Even  the  babies  have  been  brought  to  the  fair,  and  lie, 
contentedly  sucking  their  rosy  thumbs,  in  the  doorways  of 
the  casetas.  The  lords  of  these  doll-houses  are  enjoying 
peaceful  smokes  together  in  the  background  of  the  open  par- 
lors, which  are  furnished  with  as  many  chairs  as  possible,  a 
piano,  and  a  central  stand  of  flowers  ;  while  semicircles  of 
silent  ladies,  languidly  waving  the  most  exquisite  of  fans,  sit 
nearer  the  front,  watching  the  ceaseless  stream  of  pedestrians, 
and  beyond  these  the  double  procession  of  carriages,  which 
keep  close  rank  as  they  advance  on  one  side  of  the  avenue  and 
return  on  the  other.  It  is  bad  form  not  to  go  to  the  Feria 
once  at  least  in  a  carriage.  Large  families  of  limited  means 
hire  spacious  vehicles  resembling  omnibuses,  and,  squeezed 
together  in  two  opposite  rows,  drive  up  and  down  the  three 
chief  streets  for  hours. 

There  are  crested  landaus,  with  handsome  horses,  gay 
donkey-carts,  decked  out  with  wreaths  and  tassels,  shabby 
cabs,  sporting  red  and  yellow  ribbons  on  their  whips,  tooting 
coaches  —  every  sort  and  kind  of  contrivance  for  relieving 
humanity  of  its  own  weight.  There  are  mounted  cavaliers  in 


Gypsies  143 

plenty,  and  occasionally,  under  due  masculine  escort,  a  fair- 
haired  English  girl  rides  by,  or  a  group  of  Spanish  senoras, 
who  have  come  into  Seville  on  horseback  from  their  country 
homes.  But  all  this  movement  is  slow  and  dreamy,  the  play 
of  the  children  being  as  gentle  as  the  waving  of  the  fans. 

Even  Gypsy  Lane  shares  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  drowsy 
afternoon.  We  were  captured  there  almost  without  violence, 
and,  while  we  trifled  with  the  slightest  refreshment  we  could 
find,  a  juvenile  entertainment  beguiled  us  of  our  coppers 
with  pleasurable  ease.  A  coquettish  midget  of  four  summers 
innocently  danced  for  us  the  dances  that  are  not  innocent, 
and  a  wee  goblin  of  seven,  who  could  not  be  induced  to 
perform  without  a  cap,  that  he  might  pull  it  down  over  his 
bashful  eyes,  stamped  and  kicked,  made  stealthy  approaches 
and  fierce  starts  of  attack  through  the  savage  hunting  jigs  in- 
herited from  the  ancient  life  of  the  wilderness.  The  women 
swung  their  arms  and  shrilled  wild  tunes  to  urge  the  children 
on,  but  a  second  youngster  who  attempted  one  of  these  bar- 
baric dances  for  us  broke  down  in  mid  career,  and,  amid  a 
chorus  of  screaming  laughter,  buried  his  blushes  in  his  moth- 
er's lap.  The  tent  had  become  crowded  with  stalwart,  black 
gitanos,  but  they  were  in  a  domestic  mood,  smiled  on  the 
children's  antics,  and  eyed  us  with  grim  amusement  as  the 
women  caught  up  from  rough  cradles  and  thrust  into  our 
arms  those  elfish  babies  of  theirs.  Even  the  infant  of  five 
days  winked  at  us  with  trickery  in  its  jet  beads  of  vision. 
But  so  inert  was  gypsy  enterprise  that  we  were  suffered  to 
depart  with  a  few  pesetas  yet  in  our  possession. 

In  the  evening,  from  eight  till  one,  the  Feria  is  perfect 
Fairyland.  Under  the  light  of  those  clustered  gas  globes  and 


144  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

butterfly-colored  lanterns  pass  and  repass  the  loveliest  women 
of  the  world.  Beautifully  clad  as  the  senoritas  have  been 
during  morning  and  afternoon,  their  evening  toilets  excel  and 
crown  the  rest.  White-robed,  white-sandalled,  their  brown, 
bewitching  faces  peeping  out  from  the  lace  folds  of  white  man- 
tillas, with  white  shawls,  embroidered  in  glowing  hues,  folded 
over  the  arm,  and  delicate  white  fans  in  hand,  they  look  the 
very  poetry  of  maidenhood.  Months  of  saving,  weeks  of 
stitching,  these  costumes  may  have  cost,  but  the  Feria  is, 
above  all,  a  marriage  mart,  and  the  Andalusian  girl,  usually 
so  strictly  guarded,  so  jealously  secluded,  never  allowed  to 
walk  or  shop  alone,  is  now  on  exhibition.  As  these  radiant 
forms  glide  along  the  avenues,  the  men  who  meet  them  coolly 
bend  and  look  full  into  their  faces,  scanning  line  and  feature 
with  the  critical  air  of  connoisseurs.  But  well  these  cavaliers 
illustrate  the  Andalusian  catch  :  — 

"  Because  I  look  thee  in  the  face, 

Set  not  for  this  thy  hopes  too  high, 
For  many  go  to  the  market-place 
To  see  and  not  to  buy." 

The  girl's  opportunity  is  in  her  dancing.  Every  Andalusian 
woman,  high  or  low,  knows  the  Sevillana.  Some  have 
been  trained  in  it  by  accredited  teachers  of  the  art,  but  the 
most  learn  the  dance  in  childhood,  as  naturally  as  they  learn  to 
speak  and  sing.  They  are  never  weary  of  dancing  it,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  two  girls  together,  or  a  girl  and  a  lad,  but 
such  dancing  is  confined  to  the  Moorish  privacy  of  the  Spanish 
home  —  except  in  Fair  time.  Then  the  whole  world  may 
stand  before  the  casetas  and  see  the  choicest  daughters  of 


Gypsies  145 

Seville  dancing  the  dance  that  is  very  coquetry  in  motion. 
Rows  of  girls  awaiting  their  turn,  and  of  matrons  who  are 
chaperoning  the.  spectacle,  sit  about  the  three  sides  of  the 
mimic  drawing-room.  A  dense  crowd  of  men,  crying  "  Ole  ! 
Ole  !  "  and  commenting  as  freely  on  the  figures  and  postures 
of  the  dancers  as  if  they  were  ballet  artistes  in  a  cafe  chan- 
tant,  is  gathered  close  in  front.  For  their  view  these  rhythmic 
maidens  dance  on,  hour  after  hour,  until  their  great,  dusky 
eyes  are  dim  with  sleep.  The  tassels  of  curly  ribbon,  tinted 
to  match  the  dainty  touches  of  color  in  their  costumes,  seem 
to  droop  in  exhaustion  from  the  tossing  castanets.  What 
matter?  For  a  Spanish  girl  to  reach  her  twenty-fifth  birthday 
without  a  novio  is  a  tragedy  of  failure,  and  these  tired  dancers 
are  well  aware  that  caballeros  are  making  the  rounds  from 
caseta  to  caseta,  on  purpose  to  select  a  wife. 

In  Gypsy  Lane  there  is  no  sugar  coating.  The  Flamenco 
dances  are  directly  seductive.  The  life  of  the  forest  animal 
seems  reproduced  in  the  fierceness,  the  fitfulness,  the  abandon, 
of  each  strange  series  of  abrupt  gesticulations.  Yet  these 
gypsy  women,  boldly  as  they  play  on  the  passions  of  the 
spectators,  care  only  for  Gentile  money,  and  fling  off  with 
fiery  scorn  the  addresses  that  their  songs  and  dances  court. 
Many  a  flouted  gallant  could  tell  the  tale  of  one  who 

"  Like  a  right  gypsy,  hath,  at  fast  and  loose, 
Beguiled  me  to  the  very  heart  of  loss." 

Husbands  and  lovers  look  on  at  the  dancers'  most  extreme 
poses,  even  caresses,  in  nonchalant  security.  While  one 
gitana  after  another  takes  the  stage,  a  crescent  of  men  and 
women,  seated  behind,  cheer  her  on  with  cries  and  clappings, 

L 


146  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

strummings  of  the  guitar,  and  frenzied  beatings  of  the  floor 
with  staff  and  stool.  Yet  their  excitement,  even  at  its  apparent 
height,  never  sweeps  them  out  of  their  crafty  selves.  Beyond 
the  dancer  they  see  the  audience.  Disdain  and  dislike  are  in 
the  atmosphere,  and  never  more  than  when  the  rain  of  silver 
is  at  its  richest.  Still  they  follow  the  gypsy  law,  "  To  cheat 
and  rob  the  stranger  always  and  ever,  and  be  true  only  to  our 
own  blood." 


XI 

THE    ROUTE    OF    THE    SILVER    FLEETS 

"  Paul,  the  Physician,  to  Cristobal  Colombo,  greeting.  I  perceive  your  magnifi- 
cent and  great  desire  to  find  a  way  to  where  the  spices  grow." 

"  And  thus  leade  they  their  lyves  in  fullfilling  the  holy  hunger  of  golde.  But  the 
more  they  fill  their  handes  with  finding,  the  more  increaseth  their  covetous  desire." 

—  Decades  in  the  New  IVorlde. 

I    WANTED  to  go  from  Seville  to  Cadiz  by  water.     I 
longed  to  sail  by  the  "  Silver  Road  "  in  the  wake  of  the 
silver  fleets.      The   little   artist,  as   befitted  her  youth, 
preferred  a   Manila  shawl  to  that  historic  pilgrimage.      So  I 
proposed  to  make  this  trifling  trip  alone. 

Don  Jose  was  shocked.  Merriest  and  most  indulgent  of 
hosts,  he  was  inclined  at  this  point  to  play  the  tyrant.  If  I 
must  see  Cadiz,  well  and  good.  He  would  take  me  to  the 
morning  express  and  put  me  under  charge  of  the  conductor. 
At  Utrera,  an  hour  farther  on,  his  son  would  come  to  the 
train  and  see  that  all  was  well.  At  Puerto  de  Santa  Maria, 
another  hour  distant,  I  should  be  met  by  a  trusted  friend  of 
the  family,  who  would  transfer  me  to  another  train  and  an- 
other conductor,  and  so  speed  me  for  my  third  hour  to  Cadiz, 
where  I  should  be  greeted  by  a  relative  of  mine  hostess  and 
conveyed  in  safety  to  his  home. 

I  appreciated  the  kindness  involved  in  this  very  Andalusian 

H7 


148  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

programme,  but  otherwise  it  did  not  appeal  to  me.  That  was 
not  the  way  Columbus  went,  nor  Cortes.  And  much  as  I 
delighted  in  the  Alhambra,  and  the  Mosque  of  Cordova,  and 
the  Alcazar  of  Seville,  I  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  bow  a 
New  England  bonnet  beneath  the  Moorish  yoke. 

Thus  Don  Jose  and  I  found  ourselves  quietly  engaged  in 
an  Hispano-American  contest.  He  heartily  disapproved  of 
my  going,  even  by  train.  "  Una  senora  sola  !  It  is  not  the 
custom  in  Andalusia."  His  plan  of  campaign  consisted  in 
deferring  the  arrangements  from  day  to  day.  "Mariana!" 
Whenever  I  attempted  to  set  a  time  for  departure  he  blandly 
assented,  and  presently  projected  some  irresistibly  attractive 
excursion  for  that  very  date.  His  household  were  all  with 
him.  His  wife  had  not  been  able  to  procure  the  particular 
dukes  indispensable  to  a  traveller's  luncheon.  Even  my 
faithless  comrade,  draped  in  her  flower-garden  shawl,  practised 
the  steps  of  a  seguidilla  to  the  rattle  of  the  castanets  and 
laughed  at  my  defeats. 

At  last,  grown  desperate,  I  suavely  announced  at  the  Sun- 
day dinner  table  that  I  was  going  to  Cadiz  that  week.  My 
host  said,  "  Bueno  f  "  and  my  hostess,  "  Muy  blen  !  "  But 
there  was  no  surrender  in  their  tones.  On  Monday,  instead 
of  writing  the  requisite  notes  to  these  relays  of  protectors 
along  the  route,  Don  Jose  took  us  himself,  on  a  mimic  steam- 
boat, for  a  judicious  distance  down  the  Guadalquivir.  Tues- 
day he  put  me  off  with  Roman  ruins,  and  Wednesday  with  a 
private  gallery  of  Murillos.  By  Thursday  I  grew  insistent, 
and,  with  shrug  and  sigh,  he  finally  consented  to  my  going  by 
train  on  Friday.  I  still  urged  the  boat,  but  he  heaped  up  a 
thousand  difficulties.  There  wasn't  any  j  it  would  be  over- 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  149 

crowded  ;  I  should  be  seasick ;  the  boat  would  arrive,  wher- 
ever it  might  arrive,  too  late  for  my  train,  whatever  my  train 
might  be.  Compromise  is  always  becoming,  and  I  agreed  to 
take  the  nine  o'clock  express  in  the  morning. 

After  the  extended  Spanish  farewells,  for  to  kiss  on  both 
cheeks  and  be  kissed  on  both  cheeks  down  a  long  feminine  line, 
mother,  daughters,  and  maid-servants,  is  no  hasty  ceremony, 
I  sallied  forth  at  half-past  eight  with  Don  Jose  in  attendance. 
He  called  a  cab,  but  in  Spain  the  cabbies  are  men  and 
brothers,  and  this  one,  on  learning  our  destination,  declared 
that  the  train  did  not  start  until  half-past  nine  and  it  was 
much  better  for  a  lady  to  wait  en  casa  than  at  the  depot. 
This  additional  guardianship  goaded  me  to  active  remonstrance. 
Why  not  take  the  cab  for  the  hour  and  look  up  a  procession 
on  our  way  to  the  station  ?  There  are  always  processions  in 
Seville.  This  appealed  to  both  the  pleasure-loving  Spaniards, 
and  we  drove  into  the  palmy  Plaza  de  San  Fernando,  where 
an  array  of  military  bands  was  serenading  some  civic  dig- 
nitary. 

The  music  was  of  the  best,  and  we  fell  in  with  the  large 
and  varied  retinue  that  escorted  the  musicians  to  the  palace  of 
the  archbishop.  As  they  were  rousing  him  from  his  reverend 
slumbers  with  La  Marcha  de  Cadiz,  I  caught  a  twinkle  in  Don 
Jose's  eye.  Did  he  hope  to  keep  me  chasing  after  those 
bands  all  the  forenoon  ?  I  awakened  the  cabman,  whom  the 
music  had  lulled  into  the  easy  Andalusian  doze,  and  we  clat- 
tered off  to  the  station.  Of  all  silent  and  forsaken  places  !  I 
looked  suspiciously  at  Don  Jose,  whose  swarthy  countenance 
wore  an  overdone  expression  of  innocent  surprise.  A  solitary 
official  sauntered  out. 


150  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

u  Good  morning,  senor  !  Is  the  express  gone  ?  "  asked  the 
driver. 

"  Good  morning,  senor  !  There  isn't  any  express  to-day," 
was  the  reply.  "  The  express  runs  only  Tuesdays,  Thursdays, 
and  Saturdays." 

"What  a  pity,"  cooed  Don  Jose,  contentedly.  "You  will 
have  to  wait  till  to-morrow." 

"Yes,  you  can  go  to-morrow,"  indulgently  added  the  driver, 
and  the  official  chimed  sweetly  in,  "  Mariana  por  la  manana  !  " 

"  But  is  there  no  other  train  to-day  ?  "  I  asked. 

The  official  admitted  that  there  was  one  at  three  o'clock. 
Don  Jose  gave  him  a  reproachful  glance. 

u  But  you  do  not  want  to  go  by  train,"  said  my  ingenious 
host.  "  Perhaps  to-morrow  you  can  go  by  steamboat." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  go  by  steamboat  now,"  I  returned,  seizing 
my  opportunity.  "When  does  that  boat  start?" 

Nobody  knew.  I  asked  the  cabman  to  drive  us  to  the 
Golden  Tower,  off  which  sea-going  vessels  usually  anchor. 
Don  Jose  fell  back  in  his  seat,  exhausted. 

The  cabman  drove  so  fast,  for  Seville,  that  we  ran  into  a 
donkey  and  made  a  paralyzed  beggar  jump,  but  we  reached  the 
river  in  time  to  see  a  small  steamer  just  in  the  act  of  swinging 
loose  from  the  pier.  In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  Don 
Jose  forgot  everything  save  the  necessity  of  properly  present- 
ing me  to  the  captain,  and  I,  for  my  part,  was  absorbed  in 
the  ecstasy  of  sailing  from  the  foot  of  the  Golden  Tower 
along  the  Silver  Road. 

It  was  not  until  a  rod  of  water  lay  between  boat  and  wharf 
that  the  captain  shouted  to  Don  Jose,  who  struck  an  attitude 
of  utter  consternation,  that  this  craft  went  only  to  Bonanza, 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  151 

and  no  connection  could  be  made  from  there  to  Cadiz  until 
the  following  afternoon.  And  I,  mindful  of  the  austere 
dignity  that  befitted  these  critical  circumstances,  could  not 
even  laugh. 

It  was  a  dirty  little  boat,  with  a  malodorous  cargo  of  fish, 
and  for  passengers  two  soldiers,  two  peasants,  and  a  com- 
mercial traveller.  But  what  of  that  ?  I  was  sailing  on  a 
treasure  ship  of  the  Indies,  one  of  those  lofty  galleons  of 
Spain,  "  rowed  by  thrice  one  hundred  slaves  and  gay  with 
streamers,  banners,  music,"  that  had  delivered  at  the  Golden 
Tower  her  tribute  from  the  hoard  of  the  Incas,  and  was 
proudly  bearing  back  to  the  open  roads  of  Cadiz. 

We  dropped  down  past  a  noble  line  of  deep-sea  merchantmen, 
from  Marseilles,  Hamburg,  and  far-away  ports  of  Norway 
and  Sweden.  We  passed  fishing  boats  casting  their  nets, 
and  met  a  stately  Spanish  bark,  the  Calderon.  On  the  shores 
we  caught  glimpses  of  orange  grove  and  olive  orchard,  lines 
of  osiers  and  white  poplars,  and  we  paused  at  the  little  town 
of  Coria,  famous  for  its  earthen  jars,  to  land  one  of  our 
peasants,  while  a  jolly  priest,  whose  plain  black  garb  was 
relieved  by  a  vermilion  parasol,  tossed  down  cigars  to  his 
friends  among  the  sailors. 

Then  our  galleon  pursued  her  course  into  the  flat  and 
desolate  regions  of  the  marismas.  These  great  salt  marshes 
of  the  Guadalquivir,  scarcely  more  than  a  bog  in  winter, 
serve  as  pasture  for  herds  of  hardy  sheep  and  for  those  droves 
of  mighty  bulls  bred  in  Andalusia  to  die  in  the  arenas  of  all 
Spain.  For  long  stretches  the  green  bank  would  be  lined 
with  the  glorious  creatures,  standing  like  ebony  statues  deep 
amid  the  reeds,  some  entirely  black,  and  many  black  with 


152  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

slight  markings  of  white.  The  Guadalquivir  intersects  in 
triple  channel  this  unpeopled  waste,  concerning  whose  pro- 
fusion of  plant  life  and  animal  life  English  hunters  tell 
strange  tales.  They  report  flocks  of  rosy  flamingoes,  three 
hundred  or  five  hundred  in  a  column,  "glinting  in  the  sun- 
shine like  a  pink  cloud,"  and  muddy  islets  studded  thick  with 
colonies  of  flamingo  nests.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  the  camel, 
that  ancient  and  serious  beast  of  burden,  a  figure  pertaining 
in  all  imaginations  to  the  arid,  sandy  desert,  keeps  holiday  in 
these  huge  swamps.  It  seems  that,  in  1829,  a  herd  of 
camels  was  brought  into  the  province  of  Cadiz,  from  the 
Canaries,  for  transport  service  in  road-building  and  the  like, 
and  for  trial  in  agriculture.  But  the  peculiar  distaste  of 
horses  for  these  humpy  monsters  spoiled  the  scheme,  and  the 
camels,  increased  to  some  eighty  in  number,  took  merrily  to 
the  marshes,  where,  in  defiance  of  all  caravan  tradition,  they 
thrive  in  aquatic  liberty.  The  fascination  of  this  wilderness 
reached  even  the  dingy  steamer  deck.  Gulls,  ducks,  and  all 
manner  of  wild  fowl  flashed  in  the  sunshine,  which  often 
made  the  winding  river,  as  tawny  as  our  James,  sparkle  like 
liquid  gold. 

If  onlv  it  had  been  gold  indeed,  and  had  kept  the  traceries 
of  the  Roman  keels  that  have  traversed  it,  the  Vandal  swords 
whose  red  it  has  washed  away,  the  Moorish  faces  it  has 
mirrored,  the  Spanish  — 

"  listed  come  ?  " 

It  might  have  been  Cortes  who  was  offering  that  bowl  of 
puchero,  but  no !  Cortes  would  have  mixed  it  in  his  plumy 
helmet  and  stirred  it  with  that  thin,  keen  sword  one  may  see 
in  the  Madrid  Armena.  This  was  a  barefooted  cabin  boy,  in  blue 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  153 

linen  blouse  and  patched  blue  trousers,  with  a  scarlet  cloth  cap 
tied  over  his  head  by  means  of  an  orange-colored  handker- 
chief. The  dancing  eyes  that  lit  his  shy  brown  face  had  sea 
blues  in  them.  He  was  a  winsome  little  fellow  enough,  but 
I  did  not  incline  to  his  cookery.  While  I  was  watching 
river,  shores,  and  herds  and  chatting  with  the  simpatico  sailor, 
who,  taking  his  cue  from  my  look,  expressed  the  deepest 
abhorrence  of  the  bull-fights,  which,  I  make  no  doubt,  he 
would  sell  his  dinner,  jacket,  bed,  even  his  guitar,  to  see,  I 
had  taken  secret  note  of  the  cuisine.  This  child,  who  could 
not  have  counted  his  twelfth  birthday,  kindled  the  fire  in  a 
flimsy  tin  pail,  lined  with  broken  bricks.  He  cracked  over 
his  knee  a  few  pieces  of  driftwood,  mixed  the  fragments 
with  bits  of  coal  which  he  shook  out  of  a  sheepskin  bottle, 
doused  oil  over  the  whole,  and  cheerfully  applied  the  match, 
while  the  commercial  traveller  hastily  drew  up  a  bucket  of 
water  to  have  on  hand  for  emergencies.  Then  the  boy, 
with  excellent  intentions  in  the  way  of  neatness,  whisked  his 
blackened  hands  across  the  rough  end  of  a  rope  and  plunged 
them  into  the  pot  of  garbanzos,  to  which  he  added  beans,  cab- 
bage, remnants  of  fried  fish,  and  other  sundries  at  his  young 
discretion.  And  while  the  mess  was  simmering,  he  squatted 
down  on  the  deck,  with  his  grimy  little  feet  in  his  fists, 
rocking  himself  back  and  forth  to  his  own  wild  Malaga  songs, 
and  occasionally  disengaging  one  hand  or  the  other  to  plunge 
it  into  the  pot  after  a  tasty  morsel. 

"  Will  you  eat  ?  "  he  repeated  manfully,  reddening  under 
the  scrutiny  of  stranger  eyes. 

"  Many  thanks  !      May  it  profit  yourself !  " 

I  opened  my  luncheon,  and  again  we  exchanged  these  fixed 


154  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

phrases  of  Spanish  etiquette,  although  after  the  refusals  en- 
joined by  code  of  courtesy,  the  boy  was  finally  induced  to 
relieve  me  of  my  more  indigestible  goodies. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Columbus  ? "  I  asked,  as  we  munched 
chestnut  cakes  together,  leaning  on  the  rail. 

"  No,  senora,"  he  replied,  with  another  blush,  "  I  have 
heard  of  nothing.  I  know  little.  I  am  of  very  small  account. 
I  cook  and  sing.  I  am  good  for  nothing  more." 

And  is  it  to  this  those  arrogant  Spanish  boasts,  which 
rang  like  trumpets  up  and  down  the  Guadalquivir,  have 
come  at  last ! 

We  were  in  the  heart  of  a  perfect  sapphire  day.  The 
river,  often  turbulent  and  unruly,  was  on  this  April  afternoon, 
the  sailors  said,  buen  muchacho,  a  good  boy.  The  boat  ap- 
peared to  navigate  herself.  The  captain  nodded  on  his  lofty 
perch,  and  the  engineer  was  curled  up  in  his  own  tiny  hatch- 
way, trying  to  read  a  newspaper,  which  the  fresh  breeze  blew 
into  horns  and  balloons.  The  rough  cabin  bunks  were  full 
of  sleeping  forms,  and  the  leather  wine-bottles,  flung  down 
carelessly  in  the  stern,  had  cuddled  each  to  each  in  cozy 
shapes,  and  seemed  to  be  sleeping,  too.  The  two  soldiers, 
who  had  been  gambling  with  coppers  over  innumerable  games 
of  dominos,  were  listening  grimly  to  the  oratory  of  the  com- 
mercial traveller. 

"  No  fighting  for  me  !  "  this  hero  was  declaiming.  "  In 
strenuous  times  like  these  a  man  ought  to  cherish  his  life  for 
the  sake  of  his  country.  Spain  needs  her  sons  right  here  at 
home.  It  is  sweet,  as  the  poet  says,  to  die  for  the  patria,  but 
to  live  for  the  patria  is,  in  my  opinion,  just  as  glorious." 

"  And    more   comfortable,"    grunted    one   of   the   soldiers, 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  155 

while  the  other  gave  a  hitch  to  those  red  infantry  trousers 
which  look  as  if  they  had  been  wading  in  blood,  and  walked  for- 
ward to  view  from  the  bows  the  little  white  port  of  Bonanza. 

As  the  boat  went  no  farther,  I  had  to  stain  my  silver  route 
by  a  prosaic  parenthesis  of  land.  It  was  some  comfort  to 
remember  that  Magellan  waited  here  for  that  expedition  from 
Seville  which  was  the  first  to  sail  around  the  globe.  I  think 
I  travelled  the  three  miles  from  Bonanza,  Good  Weather,  to 
San  Lucar  de  Barrameda  in  Magellan's  own  carriage.  It  was 
certainly  old  enough.  As  I  sat  on  a  tipsy  chair  in  the  middle 
of  a  rude  wagon  frame  mounted  on  two  shrieking  wooden 
wheels,  and  hooded  with  broken  arches  of  bamboo,  from 
which  flapped  shreds  of  russet  oilcloth,  I  entered  into  poig- 
nant sympathy  with  Magellan's  ups  and  downs  of  hope  and 
fear.  The  jolting  was  such  a  torture  that,  to  divert  my 
attention,  I  questioned  the  driver  as  to  the  uses  of  this  and 
that  appliance  in  his  rickety  ark. 

"  And  what  are  those  ropes  for,  there  in  the  corner  ?  " 
was  my  final  query. 

"  Those  are  to  tie  the  coffins  down  when  I  have  a  fare  for 
the  cemetery,"  he  replied,  cracking  his  whip  over  the  incred- 
ibly lean  mule  that  was  sulkily  jerking  us  along. 

"Please  let  me  get  out  and  walk,"  I  entreated.  "You 
may  keep  the  valise  and  show  me  the  way  to  the  inn,  and  I 
can  go  quite  as  fast  as  that  mule." 

"  Now,  don't !  "  he  begged,  with  even  intenser  pathos. 
"Strangers  always  want  to  walk  before  they  get  to  the  inn, 
and  then  the  people  laugh  at  me.  I  know  my  carriage  isn't 
very  handsome,  but  it's  the  only  one  in  Bonanza.  Just  do 
me  the  favor  to  keep  your  seat  a  little  longer." 


156  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

I  had  been  lurched  out  of  it  only  a  minute  before,  but  I 
could  not  refuse  to  sacrifice  mere  bodily  ease  to  the  pride  of 
Spanish  spirit. 

Notwithstanding  Don  Jose's  dark  predictions,  this  was  the 
only  trial  of  the  trip.  To  realize  to  the  full  the  honesty, 
kindliness,  and  dignity  of  the  everyday  Spaniard,  one  needs 
to  turn  off  from  the  sight-seer's  route.  On  the  beaten  tourist 
track  are  exorbitant  hotels,  greedy  guides,  cheating  merchants, 
troops  of  beggars  —  everywhere  "  the  itching  palm."  But 
here  in  San  Lucar,  for  instance,  where  I  had  to  spend  twenty- 
four  hours  at  a  genuine  Spanish  fonda,  the  proprietor  took  no 
advantage  of  the  facts  that  I  was  a  foreigner,  a  woman,  and 
practically  a  prisoner  in  the  place  until  the  Saturday  afternoon 
train  went  out,  but  gave  me  excellent  accommodations,  most 
respectful  and  considerate  treatment,  and  the  lowest  hotel  bill 
that  I  had  seen  in  Spain. 

San  Lucar  has,  in  early  Spanish  literature,  a  very  ill  name 
for  roguery,  but,  so  far  as  my  brief  experience  went,  Boston 
could  not  have  been  safer  and  would  not  have  been  so  genial. 
I  strayed,  for  instance,  into  a  modest  little  shop  to  buy  a  cake 
of  soap,  which  its  owner  declined  to  sell,  insisting  that  I 
ought  to  have  a  choicer  variety  than  his,  and  sending  his  son, 
a  lad  of  sixteen,  to  point  me  out  more  fashionable  counters. 
This  youth  showed  me  the  sights  of  the  pleasant  seashore 
town,  with  its  tiers  of  closely  grated  windows  standing  out 
from  the  white  fronts  of  the  houses,  and  its  sturdy  packhorses 
and  orange-laden  donkeys  streaming  along  the  rough  stone 
streets,  and  when,  at  the  inn  door,  I  hesitatingly  offered  him 
a  piece  of  silver,  doffed  his  cap  with  smiling  ease,  and  said 
he  did  not  take  pay  for  a  pleasure. 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  157 

Once  off  the  regular  lines  of  travel,  however,  speed  is  out 
of  the  question.  I  might  have  gone  from  Seville  to  Cadiz  in 
three  hours ;  thanks  to  historic  enthusiasms,  it  took  me  nearer 
three  days.  After  escaping  from  San  Lucar,  I  had  to  pass 
four  hours  in  Jerez,  another  whitewashed,  palm-planted  town, 
whose  famous  sherry  has  made  it  the  third  city  in  Spain  for 
wealth.  The  thing  to  do  at  Jerez  is  to  visit  the  great  bodegas 
and  taste  the  rich  white  liquors  treasured  in  those  monster 
casks,  which  bear  all  manner  of  names,  from  Christ  and  His 
twelve  disciples  to  Napoleon  the  Great ;  but  mindful,  in  the 
light  of  Don  Jose's  admonitions,  that  the  weak  feminine 
estate  is  "  as  water  unto  wine,"  I  contented  myself  with  see- 
ing the  strange  storage  basin  of  the  mountain  aqueduct  —  an 
immense,  immaculate  cellar,  where  endless  vistas  of  low  stone 
arches  stretch  away  in  the  silent  dusk  above  the  glimmer  of 
a  ghostly  lake. 

The  train  for  Cadiz  must  needs  be  two  hours  late  this 
particular  evening,  but  my  cabman  drove  me  to  approved 
shops  for  the  purchase  of  bread  and  fruit,  and  then,  of  his  own 
motion,  drew  up  our  modest  equipage  in  a  shady  nook  oppo- 
site the  villa  of  the  English  consul,  that  I  might  enjoy  my 
Arcadian  repast  with  a  secure  mind.  Jehu  accepted,  after 
due  protestations,  a  share  of  the  viands,  and  reciprocated  the 
attention  by  buying  me  a  glass  of  water  at  the  nearest  stand, 
much  amused  at  my  continued  preference  for  Jerez  water 
over  Jerez  wine. 

One  of  the  Jerez  wine  merchants,  German  by  birth,  shared 
the  railway  carriage  with  me  for  a  while,  and  after  the  social 
wont  of  Continental  travel  fell  to  discussing  the  war.  "  The 
Spaniards  deserved  to  be  beaten,"  he  declared,  "  but  the  Yan- 


158  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

kees  didn't  deserve  to  beat.  They  were  conceited  enough 
before,  heaven  knows,  and  now  they  expect  all  Europe  to 
black  their  shoddy  shoes.  Your  own  country  was  a  bit  to 
blame  in  blocking  every  effort  to  keep  them  in  their  place." 

I  felt  it  time  to  explain  that  I  was  not  English,  but  Ameri- 
can. Much  disconcerted,  he  did  his  best  to  make  amends. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  said  that  for  the  world  if  I  had  known 
you  were  an  American  —  but  it's  every  syllable  true." 

He  thought  over  this  remark  in  silence  for  a  moment,  his 
Teutonic  spirit  sorely  strained  between  kindliness  and  honesty, 
and  tried  again. 

"  I  would  like  to  say  something  good  about  the  United 
States,  I  would  indeed,  —  if  there  was  anything  to  say." 

It  seemed  to  occur  to  him,  after  a  little,  that  even  this 
apology  left  something  to  be  desired,  and  he  brightened  up. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  some  roses  ?  They  sell  them  here  at 
this  station.  There  comes  a  boy  now  with  a  nice,  big  bunch. 
One  peseta  !  I  think  that's  too  dear,  don't  you  ?  " 

I  hastened  to  assent. 

"  The  lady  says  that's  too  dear.  Seventy-five  centimes  ? 
No.  The  lady  can't  pay  that.  Sixty  centimes  ?  No. 
The  lady  can't  afford  sixty  centimos.  Fifty  centimos  ?  No. 
The  lady  says  fifty  centimos  is  too  much.  She  will  take 
them  at  forty  centimos.  Here's  a  half  peseta.  And  you 
must  give  me  back  a  fat  dog." 

The  boy  held  back  the  penny  and  tried  to  substitute  a 
cent. 

"  Oh,  sir,  please,  sir,  forty-five  centimos !  There  are  two 
dozen  roses  here,  and  all  fresh  as  the  dawn.  Give  me  the 
puppy-dog  over." 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  159 

But  the  German,  who  knew  how  to  put  even  a  sharper 
edge  on  the  inveterate  Spanish  bargaining,  secured  for  the 
value  of  eight  cents,  instead  of  twenty,  his  great  bouquet  of 
really  beautiful  roses,  and  presented  it  with  as  much  of  a  bow 
as  the  carriage  limits  permitted. 

"  I  meant  to  pay  all  the  time,  you  know ;  but  one  can 
always  make  a  better  trade,  in  Spain,  if  it  is  done  in  the  name 
of  a  lady."  And  he  added,  with  that  sudden  tact  which 
innate  goodness  and  delicacy  give  to  the  most  blundering  of 
us  mortals,  "  If  you  don't  like  to  take  them  from  a  stranger  for 
yourself,  you  will  take  them  as  my  peace-offering  to^our 
country." 

I  was  reminded  again  of  my  native  land  by  another  fellow- 
traveller —  a  Spaniard  of  the  Spaniards,  this  time,  one  of  the 
Conservative  and  Catholic  leaders,  greeted  at  the  various 
stations  by  priests  and  monks  and  friars,  whose  hands  he 
solemnly  kissed.  This  distinguished  personage  was  absorbed 
in  a  voluminous  type-written  manuscript,  from  which  he  occa- 
sionally read  aloud  to  the  band  of  political  confidants  who  ac- 
companied him.  It  was  an  arraignment  of  the  Liberal  Party, 
and,  by  way  of  exposing  the  errors  of  the  Sagasta  government, 
included  a  merciless  resume  of  the  Spanish  naval  and  military 
disasters,  with  elaborate  comparisons  of  the  American  and 
Spanish  equipments.  He  was  then  on  his  way  to  join  in  a 
consoling  pilgrimage  to  a  certain  image  of  Christ,  which  had 
been  cudgelled  by  a  grief-maddened  priest  whose  dying  mother 
the  image  had  failed  to  heal. 

These  surroundings  more  or  less  jostled  my  sixteenth- 
century  dream,  but  I  held  to  it  so  stubbornly  that,  when 
pyramids  of  salt  began  to  glimmer  like  ghosts  along  the  way, 


160  Spanish  rfighways  and   ByWays 

and  a  sweeping  curve  of  lights  warned  me  of  our  approach  to 
Cadiz,  I  made  a  point  of  seeing  as  little  as  possible.  It  was 
midnight,  but  Spanish  hours  are  luckily  so  late  that  Don 
Jose's  friends  were  still  at  the  height  of  evening  sociability 
and  regaled  me  with  alternate  showers  of  sweetmeats  and 
questions.  Finally,  after  many  exclamations  of  horror  at  the 
audacity  of  the  trip,  all  the  feminine  hospitality  of  the  house- 
hold lighted  me  to  a  chamber  whose  walls  were  hung  with 
pictures  of  martyrs  and  agonizing  saints.  Among  these  I 
counted  five  colored  representations  of  Christ  opening  his 
breast  to  display  the  bleeding  heart. 

The  next  morning  I  promptly  took  boat  to  Puerto  de  Santa 
Maria,  embarked  on  the  return  steamer,  and  so  at  last  found 
myself  once  more  on  the  Silver  Road,  entering  Cadiz  harbor 
from  the  sea. 

To  be  sure,  the  Montserrat  was  riding  proudly  in  my  view, 
although  the  warships  to  which  she  had  been  used  to  curtsy  in 
the  open  roads  of  Cadiz  would  never  cut  those  shining  waves 
again.  The  waters  were  as  turquoise  blue  as  if  they  had  just 
come  from  the  brush  of  an  old  master,  and  the  towered  city 
rose  before  us  like  a  crystal  castle  in  the  air.  Its  limited 
space,  built  as  it  is  within  great  sea  walls  on  an  outlying  rock, 
which  only  a  rope  of  sand  moors  to  the  mainland,  has  neces- 
sitated narrow  streets  and  high  houses,  whose  miradores,  look- 
outs that  everywhere  crown  the  terraced  roofs,  give  this 
battlemented  aspect  to  the  town.  One  of  the  most  ancient 
and  tragic  cities  known  to  time,  claiming  Hercules  for  its 
founder,  in  turn  Phoenician,  Carthaginian,  Roman,  Gothic, 
Moorish,  Spanish,  it  yet  looks  fresh  as  a  water-lily.  I  could 
have  spent  another  three  days  in  gazing.  And  this  sparkling 


The  Route  of  the  Silver  Fleets  161 

vision  was  Spain's  Copa  de  Plata,  the  Silver  Cup  which  has 
brimmed  with  the  gold  and  pearls  of  America,  with  blood  and 
flame  and  glory. ,  Its  riches  have  taken  to  themselves  wings, 
but  its  high,  free  spirit  and  frank  gayety  abide.  Still  the 
Andalusians  sing :  — 

"  Viva  Cadiz,  Silver  Cadiz, 

Whose  walls  defy  the  sea, 
Cadiz  of  the  pretty  girls, 
Of  courtesy  and  glee  ! 

'  Good  luck  to  merry  Cadiz, 
As  white  as  ocean  spray, 
And  her  five  and  twenty  cannon 
That  point  Gibraltar  way  ! ' ' 

But  I  am  bound  to  add  that  the  cannon  do  not  look 
dangerous. 


XII 

MURILLO'S    CHERUBS 

"  Angels  o'er  the  palm  trees  flying, 

Touch  their  waving  fronds  to  rest. 
Bid  them  give  no  wind  replying. 
Jesus  sleeps  on  Mary's  breast. 
Blessed  angels,  hold  the  peeping 

Branches  still  as  altar-place, 
For  the  Holy  Child  is  sleeping 

Close  beneath  His  Mother's  face." 

—  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

SPANISH  love  for  childhood,  and  the  precocity  and 
winsomeness  of  Spanish  children,  impressed  me  from 
my  first  hour  in  the  Peninsula.  "There  is  no  road 
so  level  as  to  be  without  rough  places,"  and  the  initial  days  of 
my  Madrid  residence,  after  my  artist  comrade  had  gone  back  to 
Paris  and  the  spring  salons,  might  have  been  a  trifle  lonely  save 
for  baby  society.  I  was  living  in  a  delightful  Spanish  house- 
hold, but  the  very  excess  of  courtesy  reminded  me  continually 
that  I  was  a  Yankee  and  a  heretic.  As  time  passed,  friend- 
ship ripened,  and  it  is  to-day  no  empty  form  of  words  when 
I  am  assured  that  I  have  "  my  house  in  Madrid."  But  at 
the  outset  I  felt  myself  not  only  an  American  alien,  but  an 
Andalusian  exile.  The  "  only  Court "  is  such  a  prosaic  con- 
trast to  Seville  that  my  impulse  was  to  betake  myself  with 

162 


Murillo's  Cherubs  163 

books  to  the  great  park  of  the  Buen  Retiro,  the  magnificent 
gift  of  Olivares  to  his  royal  master,  and  let  the  Madrid  world, 
at  least  the  adult  portion  of  it,  go  by.  For  while  the  larger 
Madrilenos  were  busy  with  their  own  plays  of  politics, 
bull-fights,  and  flirtation,  the  little  ones  had  happy  after- 
noons in  that  historic  park  of  many  a  tragedy,  where 
convents,  palaces,  and  fortifications  have  all  made  way  for 
the  children's  romping  ground.  Resting  on  a  rustic  seat  in 
the  leafy  shade,  with  the  rich,  thrilling  notes  of  the  nightin- 
gale answering  the  bell  call  of  the  cuckoo  from  the  deeper 
groves  beyond,  I  could  watch  these  budding  Spaniards  to 
heart's  content. 

It  was  well  to  observe  them  from  a  distance,  however,  for 
their  young  voices  were  of  the  shrillest.  Among  the  boys, 
an  energetic  few  were  developing  muscle  by  tag  and  leap- 
frog ;  more  were  flying  kites,  cracking  whips,  twirling  slings, 
and  brandishing  the  terrors  of  pewter  swords ;  while  at  every 
turn,  beside  some  flashing  fountain  or  beneath  some  spreading 
oak,  I  would  come  upon  a  group  of  urchins  playing  al  toro 
with  the  cheap,  gaudy  capes  of  red  and  yellow  manufactured 
for  the  children's  sport.  The  girls  were  skipping  rope,  roll- 
ing hoop,  teaching  one  another  the  steps  of  endless  dances, 
and  whispering  momentous  secrets  in  statue-guarded  grottos, 
or  thickets  of  flowering  shrubs,  or  whatsoever  safe,  mysterious 
nook  their  fluttering  search  could  find. 

Here  was  a  school  out  for  its  daily  airing,  a  pretty  proces- 
sion of  rainbow-clad  little  damsels,  marshalled  by  the  black- 
veiled  figures  of  graceful  nuns,  and  pacing  with  all  decorum 
down  a  crowded  avenue ;  but  the  moment  the  troop  turned  into 
some  sequestered  by-path,  how  it  would  break  into  a  shim- 


164  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

mering  confusion  of  butterflies,  darting  hither  and  thither 
in  those  jewel-green  lights  and  sea-green  shadows,  the  nuns 
casting  their  dignity  to  the  winds  and  scampering  with  the 
swiftest !  Wandering  after  I  would  come,  perhaps,  upon 
an  open  space  where  the  smaller  boys  were  gathered,  delicate 
little  lads  riding  horse-headed  sticks,  digging  with  mimic 
spades,  and  tossing  big,  soft,  red  and  yellow  balls,  while 
mothers  and  nurses  sat  about  in  circle  on  the  stone  benches, 
calling  out  sharp-toned  cautions  to  their  respective  charges. 

And  everywhere  in  the  park  were  toddling  babies,  clasping 
dolls,  tugging  at  gay  balloons,  dragging  wooden  donkeys  on 
wheels,  and  tumbling  over  live  puppies.  They  were  pale, 
engaging,  persistent  little  creatures,  with  a  true  Spanish  in- 
ability to  learn  from  experience.  I  saw  one  aristocratic 
cherub,  white  as  snow  from  feathered  cap  to  ribboned  shoes, 
take  ten  successive  slappings  because  he  muddied  his  hands. 
The  angry  nurse  would  make  a  snatch  for  the  naughty 
fingers,  roughly  beat  off  the  dirt,  and  cuff  the  culprit  soundly. 
His  proud  little  mouth  would  tremble  ;  he  would  wink  hard 
and  fast,  but  there  was  not  a  tear  to  be  seen,  not  a  cry  to  be 
heard,  and  no  sooner  had  her  peasant  clutch  released  him  than 
back  went  the  baby  hands,  grubbing  deep  into  the  mire.  A 
gorgeous  civil  guard  finally  distracted  her  attention,  and  the 
last  view  I  had  of  the  child  showed  him  blissfully  squatted  in 
the  very  middle  of  a  puddle,  splashing  with  arms  and  legs. 

White  is  almost  the  universal  wear  of  the  prattling  age  in 
the  Buen  Retire,  although  now  and  then  some  lily  fairy  would 
flit  by  with  saffron  sash  and  harmonious  saffron  stockings,  or 
costume  similarly  touched  by  pink  or  blue.  The  Scotch 
plaids,  too,  were  in  favor  as  sashes,  and  at  rare  intervals  I 


Murillo's  Cherubs  165 

encountered  a  tot  sensibly  attired  in  stout  plaid  frock.  But 
the  white  of  this  childish  multitude  was  thickly  flecked  with 
mourning  suits,  complete  to  bits  of  black  gloves  and  even  to 
jet  studs  in  the  collars.  Among  the  sad  sights  of  the  Retire 
was  an  epileptic  boy,  led  and  half  supported  between  two 
sweet-faced,  youthful  ladies,  both  in  widow's  crepe,  who 
screened  him  with  caresses  as  his  fit  took  him  and  he  foamed 
and  screamed  in  piteous  helplessness.  This  pathetic  trio,  ever 
seeking  seclusion,  was  ever  followed  by  a  retinue  of  idlers, 
who,  for  all  their  intrusive  staring,  were  silent  and  sympa- 
thetic. 

The  nursemaids  formed  not  the  least  attractive  feature  of  the 
kaleidoscopic  picture.  Most  wore  white  caps,  fastened  with 
gilded  pins  or  knots  of  rose  or  russet ;  but  the  nurses  counted 
the  best,  from  the  mountain  province  of  Santander,  were 
distinguished  by  bright-colored  handkerchiefs  twisted  about 
the  head.  Here,  as  in  the  Efysees,  baby-wagons  are  seldom 
seen.  The  nurses  carry  in  arms  the  black-eyed  infants,  who 
bite  away  at  their  coral  necklaces  quite  like  little  Yankees. 

But  Spanish  traits  soon  declare  themselves.  In  the  centre 
of  the  park  is  an  artificial  pond,  where  lads  in  their  first  teens, 
too  old  for  play,  lean  languidly  over  the  iron  railings,  and, 
while  they  throw  crumbs  to  the  flock  of  forlorn-looking  ducks 
or  watch  the  dip  of  the  red  oar-blades  that  impel  the  pleasure 
boats,  brag  of  their  amorous  adventures  and  exchange  the 
scandal  of  the  Prado.  Sometimes  their  love  chat  is  of 
sweeter  tenor,  for  many  of  these  schoolboys  have  already 
spoken  their  betrothal  vows,  which  the  Church  will  not  let 
them  lightly  break.  Spaniards  often  marry  under  twenty-one, 
and  even  a  recent  wedding  in  Madrid,  where  neither  bride 


1 66  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

nor  bridegroom  had  reached  the  fifteenth  year,  was  hardly 
thought  amiss,  in  view  of  the  fact  that  there  was  parental 
money  to  maintain  them. 

And  why  had  the  stately  city  of  Valladolid  been  under  a 
reign  of  terror  for  half  the  week  just  past,  with  shutters  up, 
doors  barred,  and  women  and  children  kept  at  home  for 
safety,  while  bands  of  young  men  swayed  in  bloody  struggle 
through  her  famous  squares  and  streets,  but  because  a  cadet 
and  a  student  must  needs  lose  heart  to  the  same  maid  ? 
Cupid,  not  Santiago,  is  the  patron  saint  of  Spain.  And 
Cupid,  for  all  his  mischief,  has  some  very  winning  ways. 
Our  boyish  sentimentalists  of  the  Buen  Retire,  for  instance, 
easily  fall  into  song,  and  the  native  melodies,  always  with 
something  wild  and  Oriental  in  their  beat,  ring  across  the 
little  lake  into  the  woods  beyond  till  the  birds  take  up  the 
challenge  and  every  tree  grows  vocal. 

One  afternoon,  on  my  way  to  the  park,  I  bought  from  a 
roadside  vender  a  handful  of  small,  gaudily  bound  children's 
books,  and  had  no  sooner  found  what  I  fondly  supposed  was 
a  sequestered  seat  than  a  tumult  of  little  folks  surrounded  me, 
coaxing  to  hear  the  stories.  These  tales,  so  taken  at  random, 
may  throw  a  little  light  on  the  literature  of  Spanish  nurseries. 
There  was  the  life  of  the  Madonna,  which  we  passed  over, 
as  the  children  said  they  had  read  it  in  school  and  knew  it, 
every  word,  already.  So  we  turned  to  the  astonishing  career 
of  the  great  soldier,  Kill-Bullet,  who  could  easily  stop  a 
cannon-ball  against  his  palm,  and  to  an  account  of  that  far-off 
land  where  it  rained  gold  in  such  profusion  that  nobody  would 
work,  until  finally  all  the  people,  weary  of  a  wealth  which 
induced  no  tailor  to  stitch  and  no  shoemaker  to  cobble,  no 


THK  PACKANT  OK  GKTHSEMANK 


Murillo's  Cherubs  167 

baker  to  bake  and  no  dairy-maid  to  churn,  rose  by  common 
consent  and  shovelled  the  gold  into  the  river.  We  read  of 
hot-tempered  little  Ambrose,  who  left  the  gate  of  his  garden 
open,  so  that  a  hen  cackled  in  and  began  to  scratch  under  a 
rose  bush,  whereupon  the  angry  boy  chased  her  furiously  all 
over  the  garden-beds  until  his  summer's  work  was  trampled 
into  ruin,  and  his  papa  came  and  explained  to  him  how  dis- 
astrous a  thing  is  wrath.  There  was  a  companion  moral  tale 
for  little  girls,  telling  how  Inez  used  to  make  faces  until  her 
mamma  told  her  that  she  would  grow  up  with  a  twisted 
mouth  and  nobody  would  marry  her,  whereat  did  little  Inez 
promptly  reform  her  manners.  One  favorite  volume,  with 
a  cover  which  displayed  a  wild-whiskered  old  ogre  in  a  fiery 
skullcap  gloating  over  a  platterful  of  very  pink  baby,  told  how 
good  little  Violet  saved  her  bad  sisters,  Rose  and  Daisy,  from 
his  dreadful  gullet,  by  aid  of  an  ugly  monkey,  whom  her 
promised  kiss  transformed  into  a  fairy  prince.  I  was  glad  to 
find,  in  that  country  where  so  little  is  done  to  train  children 
in  the  love  of  animals,  the  ancient  tale  of  the  four  musicians, 
the  donkey,  the  dog,  the  cat,  and  the  cock,  who  escaped  in 
their  old  age  from  the  death  that  threatened  them  at  the  hands 
of  ungrateful  masters  and,  by  a  free  exercise  of  their  musical 
talents,  captured  the  house  of  a  robber-band,  putting  its  in- 
mates to  confusion  and  flight.  Many  of  the  stories,  indeed, 
would  have  been  recognized  by  young  Americans,  but  the 
proportion  of  saint-lore  was  larger  than  that  of  fairy-lore,  and, 
now  and  then,  some  familiar  property  had  suffered  a  Spanish 
change,  as  the  invisible  cap  which  had  become  an  invisible 
cape  of  the  sort  used  for  playing  bull-fight. 

The  nursery  rhymes,  too,  so  far  as  I  chanced  upon  them, 


1 68  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

were  of  the  universal  type  with  Spanish  variations.  A  Castil- 
ian  mother  plays  Peek-a-boo  with  her  baby  quite  as  an  English 
mother  does,  except  that  the  syllables  are  Cu  ?  Tras  !  The 
father's  foot  trots  the  child  to  a  Catholic  market. 

"  Trot,  little  donkey  !     Donkey,  trot  ! 

We  must  buy  honey  to  please  the  pet. 
If  San  Francisco  has  it  not, 
We' 11  go  to  San  Benet." 

Baby's  toes  are  counted  as  the  eternal  five  little  pigs,  and 
also  thus,  with  a  preliminary  tickling  of  the  rosy  sole:  — 

"  Here  passed  a  little  dove.  This  one  caught  it.  This 
one  killed  it.  This  one  put  it  on  to  roast.  This  one  took  it 
off  again.  And  this  teeny-teeny-teeny  scamp  ate  it  all  up!" 

Spanish  patty-cakes  are  followed  by  a  Spanish  grace. 

"  Patty-cakes,  oh  !     Patty-cakes,  ah  ! 

The  sweetest  cakes  are  for  dear  mama. 
Patty-cakes,  oh  !      Patty-cakes,  ah! 
The  hardest  pats  are  for  poor  papa, 

«« Bread,  O  God  !     Bread,  dear  God, 

For  this  little  child  to-day  ! 
Because  he's  such  a  baby 
He  cannot  pay  his  way." 

The  Spanish  nursery  seems  richer  in  rhymes  than  ours. 
Nurse  bends  Baby's  left  hand  into  a  rose-leaf  purse,  for  ex- 
ample, and  gives  it  little  taps  with  one  finger  after  another  of 
Baby's  right  hand,  singing :  — 


Murillo's  Cherubs  169 

"  A  penny  for  Baby's  purse 

From  papa,  mama,  and  nurse. 
A  penny,  a  penny  to  pay  ! 
Let  no  thief  steal  it  away  ! ' ' 

And  then  the  tiny  fist  is  doubled  tight. 

When  the  child,  again,  is  first  dressed  in  short  clothes,  he 
is  propped  up  in  a  corner  and  coaxed  to  take  his  first  step 
with  the  rhyme:  — 

"  One  little  step,  Baby-boy  mine  ! 

Come,  Little  Man,  step  up  ! 

And  thou  shalt  have  a  taste  of  wine 

From  Godfather's  silver  cup." 

This  rhyming  fashion  the  little  ones  take  with  them  out  of 
babyhood  into  their  later  childhood.  The  urchin  admonishes 
his  whistle :  — 

"Whistle,  whistle,  Margarita, 

And  you'll  get  a  crust  of  bread, 
But  if  you  do  not  whistle 
I'll  cut  off  your  little  head." 

The  little  girl  learns  the  scales  in  process  of  rocking  her 
doll  to  sleep  :  — 

Don't  pin-prick  my  poor  old  dolly,  Do 
Respect  my  domestic  matters.      Re 
Methinks  she  grows  melancholy,  Mi 
Fast  as  her  sawdust  scatters.      Fa 
Sole  rose  of  your  mama's  posy,  So/ 
Laugh  at  your  mama,  so  !      La 
Seal  up  your  eyes  all  cozy.      Si 
La  Sol  Fa  Mi  Re  Do. 


I7°  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

With  Spanish  children,  as  with  ours,  Christmas  Eve,  or 
Noche  Buena,  is  a  season  of  gleeful  excitement.  They  do  not 
hang  up  stockings  for  Santa  Claus,  but  they  put  out  their 
shoes  on  the  balcony  for  the  Kings  of  the  East,  riding  high 
on  camel-back,  to  fill  with  sweets  and  playthings.  Consider- 
ate children,  too,  put  out  a  handful  of  straw  for  the  tired 
beasts  who  have  journeyed  so  far  over  the  Milky  Way.  On 
some  balconies  the  morning  sun  beholds  rocking-horses  and 
rocking-donkeys,  make-believe  theatres  and  bull-rings,  with 
toy  images  of  soldiers,  bulls  and  Holy  Families;  but  if  the 
child  has  been  naughty  and  displeased  the  Magi,  his  poor  little 
shoes  will  stand  empty  and  ashamed. 

The  dramatic  instinct,  so  strong  in  Spaniards,  is  strikingly 
manifested  in  the  children's  games.  These  little  people  are 
devoted  to  the  theatre,  too,  and  may  be  seen  in  force  at  the 
matinees  in  the  Apolo,  Lara,  and  Zarzuela.  Afternoon  per- 
formances are  given  only  on  Sundays  and  the  other  Catholic 
fiestas,  which  last,  numerous  enough,  are  well  within  reach  of 
the  Puritan  conscience.  At  these  matinees  more  than  half  the 
seats  in  the  house  are  occupied  by  juvenile  ticket-holders,  from 
rows  of  vociferous  urchins  in  the  galleries,  to  round-eyed 
babies  cooing  over  their  nurses'  shoulders.  If  the  play  is  an 
extravaganza,  abounding  in  magic  and  misadventure,  the  rap- 
ture of  the  childish  audience  is  at  its  height. 

The  close  attention  with  which  mere  three-year-olds  follow 
the  action  is  astonishing.  "  Bonito  !  "  lisping  voices  cry  after 
each  fantastic  ballet,  and  wee  white  hands  twinkle  up  and  down 
in  time  with  the  merry  music.  When  the  clown  divests  him- 
self, one  by  one,  of  a  score  of  waistcoats,  or  successively 
pulls  thirty  or  forty  smiling  dairy-maids  out  of  a  churn,  little 


Murillo's  Cherubs  171 

arithmeticians  all  over  the  house  call  out  the  count  and  dis- 
pute his  numbers  with  him.  When  the  dragon  spits  his 
shower  of  sparks,  when  chairs  sidle  away  from  beneath  the 
unfortunates  who  would  sit  down  or  suddenly  rise  with 
them  toward  the  ceiling,  when  signboards  whirl,  and  dinners 
frisk  up  chimney,  cigars  puff  out  into  tall  hats,  and  umbrellas 
fire  off  bullets,  the  hubbub  of  wonder  and  delight  drowns  the 
voices  of  the  actors. 

The  house  is  never  still  for  one  single  instant.  Babies  cry 
wearily,  nurses  murmur  soothingly,  mystified  innocents  pipe 
out  questions,  papas  rebuke  and  explain,  exasperated  old 
bachelors  hiss  for  silence,  saucy  boys  hiss  back  for  fun  — 
all  together  the  Madrid  matinee  affords  a  far  better  oppor- 
tunity to  study  child  life  than  to  hear  the  comedy  upon  the 
boards. 

The  boy  king  of  Spain  is,  of  course,  a  fascinating  figure  to 
his  child  subjects.  We  were  told  at  San  Sebastian,  where  the 
Queen  Regent  has  a  summer  palace,  that  on  those  red-letter 
days  when  the  king  takes  a  sea  dip,  children  come  running 
from  far  and  near  to  see  him  step  into  the  surf,  with  two 
stalwart  soldiers  gripping  the  royal  little  fists.  And  no  sooner 
has  the  Court  returned  to  the  sumptuous,  anxious  palace  of 
Madrid,  than  the  boy  bathers  of  San  Sebastian  delight  them- 
selves in  playing  king,  mincing  down  the  beach  under  the 
pompous  military  escort  that  they  take  turns  in  furnishing  one 
another. 

In  Madrid,  too,  the  sightseeing  crowds  that  gather  before 
the  royal  palace  or  at  the  doors  of  the  Iglesia  del  Buen  Suceso, 
where  the  Queen  Regent,  with  her  "  august  children,"  some- 
times attends  the  Salve  on  Saturday  afternoons,  are  thickly 


1 72  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

peppered  with  little  folks,  eager  to  "see  the  king."  They 
are  often  disappointed,  for  the  precious  life  is  jealously 
guarded,  especially  while  the  Carlist  cloud  still  broods  above 
the  throne.  During  my  stay  in  Madrid,  a  man  with  a  re- 
volver under  his  coat  was  arrested  on  suspicion  in  the  vesti- 
bule of  the  theatre  known  as  La  Comedia,  where  the  queen 
was  passing  the  evening.  Sceptical  Madrid  shrugged  its 
shoulders  and  said :  "  Stuff  and  nonsense !  When  the 
Ministers  want  the  queen  to  sign  a  paper  that  isn't  to  her 
liking,  they  make  a  great  show  of  devotion  and  pounce 
down  on  some  poor  devil  as  an  anarchist,  to  frighten  her 
into  being  meek  and  grateful."  And,  in  fact,  the  prisoner 
was  almost  immediately  released  for  lack  of  any  incriminating 
evidence.  For  weeks  after,  nevertheless,  the  royal  move- 
ments were  more  difficult  to  forecast,  and  on  the  daily  drives 
the  kinglet  was  often  missing  from  the  family  group. 

But,  undiscouraged,  every  afternoon  the  children  would 
fringe  the  palace  side  of  the  Plaza  de  Oriente,  hoping  to  see 
the  royal  carriage  go  or  come  with  their  young  sovereign, 
whose  portrait,  a  wistful,  boyish  face  above  a  broad  lace  col- 
lar, is  printed  in  one  of  their  school  reading  books  over  the 
inscription,  "  To  the  Head  of  the  State  honor  and  obedience 
are  due."  Expectant  youngsters,  in  the  all-enveloping  black 
pinafores  that  remind  the  eye  of  Paris,  with  book  satchels 
made  of  gay  carpeting  over  the  shoulder,  would  shake  out 
their  smudgy  handkerchiefs,  often  stamped  with  the  likenesses 
of  famous  toreros,  and  help  themselves  to  one  another's  hats 
in  readiness  to  salute ;  but  the  elegant  landau,  preceded  by  an 
escort  of  two  horsemen,  dashes  by  so  swiftly  that  their  long 
waiting  would  be  rewarded  only  by  the  briefest  glimpse  of 


Murillo's  Cherubs  173 

bowing  bonnets  and  of  a  small  gloved  hand  touching  the  mili- 
tary cap  that  shades  a  childish  face. 

It  is  a  pale  and  sober  little  face  as  I  have  seen  it,  but  Mad- 
rilefios  resent  this  impression  and  insist  that  his  youthful 
Majesty  is  "  sturdy  enough,"  and  as  merry  as  need  be.  They 
say  that  the  buoyancy  which  he  inherits  from  his  father  is 
crossed  by  strange  fits  of  brooding,  due  to  his  mother's  blood, 
but  that  he  is,  in  the  main,  a  merry-hearted  child.  Al- 
though he  has  masters  for  his  studies  now,  his  affection  still 
clings  to  his  Austrian  governess,  whom,  none  the  less,  he 
dearly  loves  to  tease.  When  she  is  honored  by  an  invita- 
tion to  drive  with  the  Queen  Regent,  for  example,  Alphonsito 
hastens  to  hide  her  hat  and  then  joins  most  solicitously  in  her 
fluttered  search,  until  her  suspicion  darts  upon  him,  and  his 
prank  breaks  down  in  peals  of  laughter.  Madrid  was  espe- 
cially sensitive  about  him  last  year,  for  he,  Alfonso  XIII, 
godson  of  Pope  Leo  XIII,  was  thirteen  years  of  age  —  an 
iteration  of  the  unlucky  omen  that  really  ought  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  loss  of  the  Spanish  colonies.  His  mother,  in  honor 
of  his  birthday,  May  seventeenth,  distributed  five  thousand  dol- 
lars among  orphan  asylums  and  other  charities,  and  held  a 
grand  reception  in  the  Hall  of  the  Ambassadors,  where  the 
slight  lad  in  cadet  uniform,  enthroned  beside  the  Queen  Re- 
gent between  the  two  great  lions  of  gilded  bronze,  received  the 
congratulations  of  a  long  procession  of  bowing  ministers, 
admirals,  captain  generals,  prelates,  and  those  haughty  gran- 
dees of  Spain  whose  ancient  privilege  it  is  to  wear  their  hats 
in  the  royal  presence ;  but  the  shrinkage  of  his  realm  since 
his  last  birthday  must  have  been  uppermost  in  the  mind  of 
even  the  young  lord  of  the  festival,  Pobrecito  !  one  wonders 


174  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

what  thoughts  go  on  behind  those  serious  brows  of  his,  when, 
for  instance,  he  looks  down  from  his  palace  windows  at  the 
daily  ceremony  of  guard-mounting  in  the  courtyard.  It  is 
such  a  gallant  sight;  the  martial  music  is  so  stirring;  the 
cavalry  in  blue  and  silver  sit  their  white  steeds  so  proudly, 
with  the  sun  glistening  on  their  drawn  swords  and  the  wind 
tossing  their  long,  white,  horsehair  plumes,  that  all  these 
tales  of  defeat  and  loss  must  puzzle  the  sore  boy  heart  and 
cast  confusing  shadows  down  the  path  before  him. 

Little  as  the  Spaniards  love  the  Queen  Regent,  to  whom 
they  cannot  pardon  her  two  cardinal  offences  of  being  a 
"  foreigner  "  and  of  disliking  the  bull-fight,  they  have  a  certain 
affection  for  Alfonso  XIII,  "the  only  child  born  a  king  since 
Christ."  Indeed,  Spain  seems  to  have  been  always  sympathetic 
toward  childhood  in  palaces.  Enter  this  wonderful  Armeria 
of  Madrid,  where  those  plumed  and  armored  kings,  on  richly 
caparisoned  chargers,  whom  we  have  come  to  know  in  the 
paintings  of  the  Museo  del  Prado,  seem  to  have  leapt  from 
the  canvases  to  greet  us  here  in  still  more  lifelike  guise,  albeit 
not  over  graciously,  with  horse  reined  back  and  mighty  lance 
at  poise.  Any  fine  morning  they  may  all  come  clattering  out 
into  the  Plaza  de  Armas  —  and  where  will  the  United  States 
be  then?  Here  stands  a  majestic  row  of  them  —  Philip  II, 
in  a  resplendent  suit  of  gold-inlaid  plate-armor;  Maximilian, 
whose  visor  gives  him  the  fierce  hooked  beak  of  an  eagle ; 
Sebastian  of  Portugal,  with  nymphs  embossed  in  cunning  work 
on  his  rich  breastplate ;  and  Charles  V,  three  times  over,  in 
varieties  of  imperial  magnificence. 

But  opposite  these  stern  warriors  is  a  hollow  square  of  boy 
princes,  and  of  noble  ninos  whose  visors  hide  their  identities 


OF  THE  PASSION 


Murillo's  Cherubs  175 

in  long  oblivion.  The  armor  of  these  childish  figures  is 
daintily  wrought,  with  tender  touches  of  ruffs  and  cuffs,  scal- 
lops and  flutings  and  rosettes.  Often  only  the  upper  half  of 
the  body  is  incased  in  steel,  the  slender  legs  playing  the  dandy 
in  puffed  trousers  of  striped  velvet  —  scarlet,  green,  and  buff" 
—  silk  hose,  and  satin  slippers.  Little  Philip  III  proudly 
displays  a  diminutive  round  shield,  with  a  relief  of  battle 
scenes  in  gold.  The  plate  armor  of  little  Philip  IV  is 
stamped  with  lions  and  castles,  eagles  and  spears.  And  his 
little  son,  Don  Baltasar  Carlos,  bestrides  a  spirited  pony  and 
wears  at  the  back  of  his  helmet  a  tuft  of  garnet  feathers. 

The  Prado  galleries  abound  in  royal  children.  This  same 
infante,  Don  Baltasar,  i;  seen  here  in  the  foreground  of  a 
lonely  landscape,  with  desolate  blue  hills  beyond  and  driving 
clouds  above.  But  i-'l  the  more  bright  and  winsome  glows 
the  form  of  the  six-year-old  horseman,  the  gold-fringed,  pink 
sash  that  crosses  his  breast  streaming  out  far  behind  with  the 
speed  of  his  fearless  gallop.  Supreme  among  the  Prado  chil- 
dren, of  course,  is  the  little  daughter  of  Philip  IV,  the  central 
figure  of  the  world-renowned  Las  Meninas.  All  in  vain  does 
her  charming  maid  of  honor  kneel  to  her  with  the  golden  cup  ; 
all  in  vain  does  the  dwarf  tease  the  drowsy  dog.  The  solemn 
puss,  undiverted,  will  not  stir  from  her  pose  nor  alter  the  set 
of  her  small  features  until  the  artist,  standing  half  disdainfully 
before  his  easel,  gives  the  word.  She  has  waited  for  it  now 
hard  upon  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  but  the  centuries  beat 
in  vain  against  that  inflexible  bit  of  propriety. 

Even  the  royal  burial  vaults  beneath  the  grim  Escorial  have 
in  their  chill  grandeur  of  marble  halls  an  especial  Panteon  for 
babies,  princely  innocents  whose  lives  are  reckoned  in  months 


ij6  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

more  often  than  in  years.  Gold  and  blue  and  red  brighten 
their  great  white  sepulchre,  and  above  the  altar  smiles  the 
Christ  Child,  with  the  graven  words,  "  Suffer  the  children 
to  come  unto  me."  But  for  Alfonso  XIII  a  sombre  sarcopha- 
gus waits  in  the  haughtiest  and  gloomiest  of  all  the  Panteons, 
where  only  kings,  and  queens  who  were  mothers  of  kings, 
may  lie. 

It  is  not  royal  childhood  alone  that  is  dear  to  this  strange, 
romantic,  monstrously  inconsistent  heart  of  Spain.  The  cruelty 
of  Spaniards  to  horses  and  donkeys  sickens  even  the  roughest 
Englishman,  yet  almost  every  voice  softens  in  speaking  to  a 
child,  and  during  my  six  months  in  Spanish  cities  I  saw 
nothing  of  that  street  brutality  toward  the  little  ones  which 
forces  itself  upon  daily  notice  in  Liverpool  and  London. 
Spanish  children  are  too  often  ill-cared  for,  but  despite  the 
abuses  of  ignorant  motherhood  and  fatherhood,  such  vivid, 
vivacious,  bewitching  little  people  as  they  are !  Enter  a 
Spanish  schoolroom  and  see  how  vehemently  the  small  brown 
hands  are  wagged  in  air,  how  the  black  eyes  dance  and  the 
dimples  play,  what  a  stir  and  bustle,  what  a  young  exuberance 
of  energy  !  They  race  to  the  blackboards  like  colts  out  at 
pasture.  They  laugh  at  everything,  these  sons  of  "  the  grave 
Spaniard,"  and  even  the  teacher  will  duck  his  head  behind 
the  desk  for  a  half-hidden  ecstasy  over  some  dunce's  blunder 
or  some  rogue's  detected  trick. 

But  their  high  spirits  never  make  them  unmindful  of  those 
courtesies  of  life  in  which  they  have  been  so  carefully  trained. 
There  is  an  old-fashioned  exaggeration  about  their  set  phrases 
of  politeness.  Just  as  the  casual  caller  kisses  the  lady's  feet, 
in  words,  and  she  reciprocates  by  a  verbal  kissing  of  his  hand, 


Murillo's  Cherubs  177 

so  the  school  children  respond  to  the  roll  call  with  a  glib  : 
"  Your  servant,  sir."  Ask  a  well-bred  boy  his  name,  and  he 
rattles  back,  "Jesus  Herrera  y  La-Chica,  at  the  service  of 
God  and  yourself."  They  learn  these  amenities  of  speech 
with  their  first  lispings.  I  was  much  taken  aback  one  day 
in  Seville  by  a  child  of  eighteen  months.  Not  in  the  least 
expecting  this  infant,  whose  rosy  face  was  bashfully  snuggled 
into  his  young  aunt's  neck,  to  understand,  I  said  to  her, 
"  What  a  fine  little  fellow  !  "  Whereupon  Master  Roly-poly 
suddenly  sat  up  straight  on  her  arm,  ducked  his  head  in  my 
direction,  and  gravely  enunciated,  "Es  favor  que  Usted  me  hace" 
—  "It  is  a  compliment  you  pay  me."  I  could  hardly  recover 
from  the  shock  in  time  to  make  the  stereotyped  rejoinder, 
"No  es  favor,  es  justicia  "  —  "  No  compliment,  but  the  truth." 
To  this  Don  Chubbykins  sweetly  returned,  "  Mil  gracias "  — 
"  A  thousand  thanks,"  and  I  closed  this  uncanny  dialogue 
with  the  due  response,  "  No  las  merece  "  —  "  It  does  not  merit 
them." 

Servants,  neighbors,  passers-by,  beggars,  all  prompt  the 
children  in  these  shibboleths  of  good  manners,  adorning  the 
precept  with  example.  "  Would  you  like  to  go  with  us  to 
the  picture  gallery  this  afternoon  ?  "  I  once  asked  a  laddie 
of  artistic  tastes  at  a  boarding-house  table.  "  <$/,  senora"  he 
replied,  whereupon  several  of  the  boarders,  greatly  scandalized, 
hastened  to  remind  him,  but  in  the  gentlest  of  tones,  of  the 
essential  addition,  "  con  mucbo  gusto"  to  which  we  were  bound 
to  reply,  "  The  pleasure  will  be  ours."  The  girls,  even  more 
than  the  boys,  are  bred  in  these  formal  fashions  of  intercourse. 
Every  morning  they  ask  if  you  have  rested  well,  and  express 
grief  or  gratification,  according  to  your  response.  In  Mrs. 


178  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Gulick's  school,  mere  midgets  of  six  and  eight,  returning  from 
class,  will  not  close  the  doors  of  their  rooms  if  you  are  in 
sight,  though  perhaps  seated  at  a  reading  table  in  the  farther 
end  of  the  corridor,  lest  they  should  appear  inhospitable.  On 
our  return  from  Italica,  a  thirsty  child  of  seven,  heated  to 
exhaustion  with  the  sun  and  fun  of  that  Andalusian  picnic, 
refused  to  touch  the  anise-seed  water  which  some  good  Samari- 
tan had  handed  up  to  the  dusty  carriage,  until  the  glass  had 
been  offered  to  every  one  else,  driver  included,  leaving,  in  the 
sequel,  little  enough  for  her.  On  our  midnight  return  from 
the  Feria,  this  same  nina  of  gentle  memory,  staggering  and 
half  crying  with  sleepiness,  would  nevertheless  not  precede 
any  of  her  elders  in  entering  the  home  door.  "  After  you," 
she  sobbed,  with  hardly  voice  enough  to  add,  "  And  may 
you  all  rest  well!"  "The  same  to  you,"  chorussed  the 
adults,  trooping  by,  and  her  faint  murmur  followed,  "  Many 
thanks." 

"  Shall  I  give  you  this  fan  when  I  go  away,"  I  asked  her 
once,  "or  would  you  rather  have  it  now  to  take  to  the  party  ?  " 
She  wanted  it  then  and  there,  but  what  she  answered  was, 
"  I  shall  be  best  pleased  to  take  it  when  you  like  best  to  give 
it." 

You  must  beware  of  saying  to  a  little  Spanish  maid,  "  What 
a  beautiful  rosebud  in  your  hair!"  Instantly  the  hand  is  busy 
with  the  pins.  "  It  is  at  your  disposal."  You  hastily  protest, 
"A  thousand  thanks,  but  no,  no,  no!  It  is  very  well  placed 
where  it  is."  Off  comes  the  flower,  notwithstanding,  and  is 
fastened  into  your  belt.  For  when  the  elder  sister  has  in- 
sisted on  giving  you  (until  the  next  ball)  those  dancing  slip- 
pers which  you  so  rashly  admired,  and  the  sister's  novio  went 


Murillo's  Cherubs  179 

home  the  night  before  without  his  cloak,  because  you  had 
approved  its  colors  (although  he  sent  his  man  around  for  it 
before  breakfast),  what  can  the  children  do  but  follow  suit? 
Even  their  form  of  "  Now  I  Lay  Me"  is  touched  with  their 
quaint  politeness :  — 

"Jesus,  Joseph,  Mary, 

Your  little  servant  keep, 
While,  with  your  kind  permission, 
I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

The  precocity  of  Spanish  children  is  a  recognized  fact. 
An  educational  expert,  a  Frenchman  who  holds  a  chair  in  an 
English  university,  assured  us  that  beyond  a  doubt  Spanish 
children,  for  the  first  dozen  years  of  life,  develop  more 
rapidly  than  any  other  children  of  Europe.  Yet,  although 
these  clever  little  Spaniards  are  so  punctiliously  taught  to  put 
the  pleasure  of  others  before  their  own,  they  are  treated  with 
universal  indulgence.  Soldiers  lining  the  curbstones  on  occa- 
sion of  a  royal  progress  will  let  the  children  press  in  beside 
them  and  cling  to  their  valorous  legs,  until  the  military  array 
seems  variegated  with  a  Kindergarten.  My  farewell  glimpse 
of  Toledo,  on  Corpus  Christi  Day,  makes  a  pretty  picture  in 
memory.  The  red-robed  cardinal,  who  had  come  to  the 
station  to  take  his  train,  was  fairly  stormed  by  all  the  chil- 
dren within  sight,  clamoring  for  his  blessing.  In  vain  the 
attendant  priests  tried  to  scatter  the  throng,  and  ladies  of  high 
degree,  planting  their  chairs  in  a  circle  about  the  prelate, 
acted  as  a  laughing  body-guard.  It  was  all  of  no  avail.  The 
little  people  danced  up  and  down  with  eagerness,  dodged 
under  arms,  and  slipped  between  elbows.  They  knelt  upon 


i8o  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

the  cardinal's  very  feet,  rapturously  kissing  his  red-gloved 
hand  and  clasping  to  their  pinafores  and  blouses  the  sacred 
trinkets  he  distributed.  And  he,  patting  the  bobbing  black 
pates,  wherever  he  could  get  a  chance,  smiled  on  the  little 
ones  and  forbade  them  not. 

The  affection  lavished  on  children  in  the  household  circle 
is  often  poetic  and  passionate.  I  observed  one  day  a  brusque 
young  fellow  of  twenty-four,  whom  we  had  thought  rather  a 
hard,  catch-penny  sort  of  person,  suddenly  gather  a  four-year- 
old  nephew  to  his  heart  and  cover  the  dimpled  face  with  kisses, 
while  the  look  in  his  own  black  eyes  was  the  look  of  a  St. 
Anthony.  I  stood  once  in  a  crowded  cathedral  and  lost  all 
sense  of  the  service  in  contemplation  of  an  ugly  manikin,  with 
coarse  features  and  receding  forehead,  who  held  a  frail  baby 
boy  tight  against  his  breast.  This  was  a  blue-eyed,  fair-haired 
wean,  with  a  serious,  far-away  expression,  and  from  time  to 
time,  attracted  by  the  gilt  of  the  ceiling,  he  raised  a  tiny  pink 
fore-finger  and  pointed  upward,  while  the  father's  animal  face, 
never  turned  away  from  the  child,  became  transfigured  with 
love  and  worship.  He  took  the  baby  out,  when  it  had  fallen 
asleep  upon  his  shoulder,  and  it  was  good  to  see  that  dense 
throng  open  and  make  a  lane  for  him,  every  man,  however 
brutal  or  frivolous  his  aspect,  being  careful  not  to  jostle  the 
drooping,  golden  head. 

But  Spanish  children,  so  caressed  and  so  adored,  are  never- 
theless modest  in  their  bearing,  and  fall  shyly  back  before  a 
stranger.  I  remember  a  beaming  grandfather  displaying  to  us 
two  blushing  little  men,  bidding  them  open  their  eyes  wide 
that  we  might  contrast  colors,  turn  back  to  back  that  we 
might  measure  heights,  and  in  various  ways  put  their  small 


Murillo's  Cherubs  181 

selves  on  show,  all  which  they  did  in  mute  obedience,  but  at 
the  word  of  release  flew  together,  flung  their  arms  about  each 
other's  necks,  rolled  under  the  nearest  table,  and  curled  up 
into  the  least  possible  bunch  of  bashful  agony. 

The  pictures,  frescos,  and  carvings  of  Spanish  churches 
often  reflect  the  looks  of  Spanish  childhood.  The  Holy  Family 
gives  a  wide  range  of  opportunity,  especially  in  the  minister- 
ing cherubs.  There  is  a  crucifix  in  one  of  the  twenty-two 
aisle  chapels  of  Toledo  cathedral,  where  three  broken-hearted 
mites  of  angels,  just  three  crying  babies,  are  piteously  striv- 
ing to  draw  out  the  nails  from  the  Sufferer's  hands  and  feet. 
Many  of  the  saint-groups  admit  of  child  figures,  too,  as  the 
St.  Christopher,  which  almost  invariably  appears  as  a  colossal 
nave  painting,  "  the  Goliath  of  frescos." 

It  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  children  were  not  beloved  in 
the  country  of  Murillo.  Spain  has  let  the  most  of  his  beggar- 
boy  pictures  go  to  foreign  collections,  but  she  has  cherished 
his  Holy  Families  and  cherub-peopled  Annunciations.  Such 
ecstatic  rogues  as  those  Andalusian  cherubs  are!  Their  rest- 
less ringlets  catch  azure  shadows  from  the  Virgin's  mantle  ; 
they  perch  tiptoe  on  the  edges  of  her  crescent  moon  ;  they 
hold  up  a  mirror  to  her  glory  and  peep  over  the  frame  to 
see  themselves ;  they  pelt  St.  Francis  with  roses  ;  they  play 
bo-beep  from  behind  the  fleecy  folds  of  cloud  ;  they  try  all 
manner  of  aerial  gymnastics.  But  a  charm  transcending  even 
theirs  dwells  in  those  baby  Christs  that  almost  spring  from 
the  Madonna's  arms  to  ours,  in  those  boy  Christs  that  touch 
all  boyhood  with  divinity.  The  son  of  the  Jewish  carpenter, 
happy  in  his  father's  workshop  with  bird  and  dog ;  the  shep- 
herd lad  whose  earnest  eyes  look  toward  his  waiting  flock  ; 


1 8i  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

the  lovely  playmates,  radiant  with  innocent  beauty,  who  bend 
together  above  the  water  of  life  —  from  these  alone  might 
Catholic  Spain  have  learned  the  sacredness  of  childhood. 
But  Spain  first  showed  Murillo  the  vision  that  he  rendered 
back  to  her. 


XIII 


THE    YOLK    OF    THE    SPANISH    EGG 

"  From  Madrid  to  Heaven,  and  in   Heaven   a   little  window  for  looking  back  to 
Madrid."  —  Popular  Saying. 

FEW  foreigners  can  understand  the  sentiment  of  Span- 
iards for  their  capital.  Madrid  is  the  crown  city  of 
Spain,  not  by  manifest  destiny,  but  by  decree  of  Philip 
II,  who,  as  his  nature  was,  better  loved  the  harsh  Castilian 
steppe,  baked  by  summer  suns  and  chilled  by  treacherous  winds, 
than  the  romantic  sierras  and  gracious  river  valleys  where 
earlier  royal  seats  had  been  established.  If  in  Madrid  the 
desert  blossoms  like  the  rose,  it  is  a  leafless  rose,  for  the  city 
has  no  suburbs.  It  lacks  both  the  charm  of  environment  so 
potent  in  Granada  and  Seville  and  the  charm  of  ancient  story, 
which  these  share  with  those  other  bygone  courts  —  Toledo, 
Valladolid,  Valencia,  Saragossa.  It  is  not  a  vital  organ  of 
modern  European  civilization,  like  artistic  Paris  or  strenuous 
London.  And  yet  it  is  more  cosmopolitan,  and  hence  less 
distinctively  Spanish  than  other  cities  of  the  Peninsula.  It  is 
devoted  to  the  bull-fight  and  the  lottery,  abounds  in  beggars 
and  prostitutes,  does  not  take  naturally  to  commerce,  and  is 
sadly  behindhand  with  popular  education.  Yet  Madrilenos 
cannot  be  persuaded  that  the  skies  behold  its  equal,  and  even 

183 


184  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

over  the  Anglo-Saxon  stranger  its  fascination  gradually 
steals. 

In  the  first  place,  the  mirth  of  the  home  life  beguiles  the 
serious  foreigner.  Spanish  households  have  a  pleasantness 
quite  their  own.  All  the  natural  vivacity  and  kindliness  of 
the  people  find  free  play  at  home,  where  servants  sing  and 
children  prattle,  ladies  chatter  and  gentlemen  jest,  all  in  an 
atmosphere  of  ease,  leisure,  and  spontaneous  sociability.  The 
father  is  not  preoccupied  with  business,  the  mother  has  never 
dreamed  of  belonging  to  a  woman's  club,  the  children  have 
little  taste  for  reading,  and  few  books  to  read.  So  talking  is 
the  order  of  the  day,  and,  Sancho  Panza !  how  they  talk  ! 
Lingering  half  the  morning  over  the  desayuno  of  thick,  cinna- 
mon-flavored chocolate,  into  which  are  dipped  strips  of  bread, 
two-thirds  of  the  afternoon  over  the  almuerzo,  a  substantial 
repast  of  meat  and  vegetables,  fruit  and  dukes,  and  all  the 
evening  over  the  comida,  where  soup  and  the  national  dish  of 
puchero  are  added  to  the  noontide  bill  of  fare,  they  chatter, 
chatter,  chatter,  like  the  teeth  of  Harry  Gill. 

Still,  as  of  old,  Spaniards  are  temperate  in  food  and  drink. 
"  It's  as  rare  to  see  a  Spaniard  a  drunkard  as  a  German  sober," 
wrote  Middleton  three  centuries  ago.  They  use  more  water 
than  wine,  and  although  they  have  a  grand  appetite  for  sweets, 
they  take  them  in  comparatively  simple  forms.  The  national 
lack  of  enterprise  is  conspicuous  even  here,  for  dearly  as  the 
Spaniard  dotes  on  chocolate  and  sugar,  Madrid  does  not  make 
her  own  chocolate  creams,  but  imports  them  from  Paris  to 
sell,  when  they  are  too  hard  to  eat,  at  a  price  too  high  to  pay. 

But  smoking  and  talking  are  indulgences  which  Madrilenos 
carry  to  excess.  Lounging  on  the  balcony,  a  gayly  painted 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  185 

case  of  paper  cigarettes  at  hand,  they  will  pass  hours  in  ban- 
tering their  wives,  whom  they  worship  much  as  they  worship 
the  images  of  Mary,  delighting  to  dress  them  in  fine  clothes 
and  glittering  trinkets,  and  expecting  in  return,  it  is  said, 
their  pardon  for  a  multitude  of  sins.  And  when  my  lord 
saunters  forth  to  "  rest  "  in  one  of  the  iron  chairs  that  line 
the  promenades,  or  in  a  cafe  window,  or  at  an  open-air  table 
before  one  of  the  frequent  stalls  of  cooling  beverages,  the 
women  of  the  house  flock  together  in  some  airy  corner,  stitch- 
ing away  on  their  endless  embroideries,  and  receiving,  with 
"a  million  kisses"  and  a  chorus  of  shrill  welcomes,  the 
mantilla-veiled  ladies  who  come  to  call. 

If  the  afternoon  is  frying  hot,  it  is  just  possible  that  the 
gallivanting  don  will  bethink  himself  to  send  home  a  tray  of 
borchata^  a  snowy,  chilly,  puckery  refreshment,  eaten  by  aid 
of  wafers  in  the  form  of  little  tubes  that  look  and  taste  much 
like  wrapping  paper.  This  treat  gives  fresh  animation  to  the 
emulous  tongues.  The  slightest  neighborhood  incident,  as 
recounted  in  such  a  group,  takes  on  a  poetic  vividness  and  a 
dramatic  intensity,  and  when  it  is  all  told  over  again  at  the 
dinner-table,  excitement  waxes  so  high  that  long  after  the 
dishes  and  cloth  have  been  removed  the  family  may  still  be 
found  seated  around  the  board,  flashing  a  thousand  lights  of 
suggestion  and  surmise  on  that  dull  bit  of  scandal.  The 
husband  cannot  cease  from  discussion  long  enough  to  read  the 
evening  paper,  nor  the  wife  to  send  the  little  ones  to  bed,  and 
midnight  may  find  the  three  generations,  from  grandfather  to 
four-year-old,  still  talking  with  might  and  main. 

Accustomed  guests  come  at  once  to  the  dining  room,  ready 
to  contribute  their  share  to  the  lively  clash  of  voices,  or  to 


1 86  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

take  part  in  one  of  the  characteristic  games  of  a  Spanish  fam- 
ily circle,  as  lottery.  In  this  favorite  pastime,  victory,  includ- 
ing a  goodly  handful  of  coppers,  falls  to  him  whose  checked 
and  numbered  square  of  pasteboard  is  most  quickly  filled  with 
beans.  These  are  placed  on  the  squares  called  by  the  bag- 
holder,  who  draws  numbers  haphazard  from  his  sibylline  sack. 
When  the  small  hours  come  in,  the  company  may  adjourn  to 
the  sala  for  dancing  and  music,  but  conversation  under  cover 
of  these  gushes  on  more  impetuously  than  ever — the  Castilian 
art  of  arts. 

One  of  the  chief  graces  of  the  tertulias  consists  in  their 
informality  —  their  frank  simplicity.  Even  on  a  saint  day  — 
a  day  consecrated  to  the  saint  whose  name  some  member  of 
the  family  bears  —  while  all  the  nearer  friends  drop  in  for 
congratulation,  with  perhaps  a  gift  of  flowers,  in  case  of  a 
lady,  or  sweetmeats  for  a  child,  the  tertulia  requires  no  further 
exercise  of  hospitality  than  an  open  door  and  a  feast  of  words. 
There  is  more  blithesomeness,  for  bay  santo  en  casa  (there  is  a 
saint  in  the  house),  but  no  more  parade,  with  its  preliminary 
fret  and  fuss. 

The  streets  of  Madrid,  too,  have  a  curious  fascination.  In 
the  morning  hours  there  is  the  picturesque  confusion  of  the 
market.  The  donkeys  are  unladen  here,  there,  and  every- 
where, and  the  sidewalks  and  squares  promptly  dotted  over 
with  bright  little  heaps  of  delicious  Toledo  cherries,  Valencian 
apricots,  Murcian  lemons,  and  all  the  greens  of  the  season. 
The  peasant  women,  squatted  among  their  lettuces  and  cu- 
cumbers, seem  much  more  interested  in  gossiping  with  their 
neighbors  than  in  securing  customers.  Babies  tumble  about, 
crushing  the  pinks  and  roses,  and  cabmen  good-naturedly  pick 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  187 

their  way  as  best  they  can  among  these  various  vegetable  and 
human  obstacles.  Venders  of  books,  too,  like  to  pave  the 
street  with  rows,  of  open  volumes,  whose  pages  are  soon 
dimmed  with  dust,  and  artisans,  especially  cobblers,  set  up 
their  benches  just  outside  their  doors,  and  add  the  click  of 
their  hammers  to  the  general  din. 

In  the  early  afternoon  the  shady  side  of  the  street  is  lined 
with  the  outstretched  forms  of  workingmen,  taking  the  indis- 
pensable siesta.  Some  rest  their  black  pates  on  arm  or  folded 
jacket  or  bag  of  tools,  but  plenty  of  bronzed  laborers  slumber 
peacefully  all  prone  on  the  hot  paving,  with  not  so  much  as  a 
cabbage  leaf  for  a  pillow.  Beggars  lie  along  the  stone  benches 
of  the  paseos  and  parks,  cabmen  sleep  on  their  cabs,  porters 
over  their  thresholds,  and  I  once  turned  away  from  a  church 
I  had  come  far  to  visit,  not  having  the  hardihood  to  waken 
the  verger,  who,  keys  in  hand,  was  snoring  like  an  organ, 
sprawled  across  half  a  dozen  granite  steps. 

As  the  cool  of  evening  approaches,  the  overcrowded  houses 
of  the  poor  pour  forth  entire  families  into  the  street,  where 
supper  is  cooked  and  eaten,  and  all  manner  of  domestic  opera- 
tions carried  on.  Before  every  door  is  at  least  one  black-eyed 
baby,  in  a  little  wooden  cage  something  like  a  churn,  with  rim 
running  under  the  armpits,  so  that  the  child,  safe  from  straying 
or  falling,  may  be  left  to  his  own  devices.  As  darkness  deepens, 
out  come  the  stars  and  the  serenos.  These  latter,  in  Madrid, 
no  longer  cry  fair  weather,  but  they  hold  the  keys  of  the  houses 
—  an  arrangement  that  I  never  learned  to  take  seriously. 

Returning  from  visit  or  theatre  in  the  evening,  I  found  it 
difficult  to  say  with  requisite  solemnity  to  the  driver,  "Would 
you  be  so  kind  as  to  shout  for  Celestino  ? "  The  driver 


1 88  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

promptly  roars,  "  Celestino  !  "  and  twinkling  lights  come  bob- 
bing toward  us  from  far  and  near,  but  no  Celestino.  "  He's 
in  the  wineshop,"  suggests  Isidro,  whose  charge  begins  three 
houses  above.  "  He's  eating  iron,"  asserts  Pedro,  in  the 
phrase  describing  those  colloquies  which  a  Spanish  suitor  car- 
ries on  with  his  divinity  through  the  grating.  Then  we  all 
chorus,  "  Celestino  !  "  and  again,  "  Celestino  !  "  and  again, 
"  Celestino  !  " 

At  this  a  cloaked  figure  comes  running  across  the  square, 
waving  a  lantern  over  his  head  and  vociferating  jocund  apolo- 
gies :  "  I  regret  it  extremely.  I  am  stricken  with  sorrow. 
But  at  the  first  call  I  was  wetting  my  lips  at  the  fountain,  and 
at  the  second  I  was  pausing  to  exchange  four  words  only  with 
the  lady  of  my  soul,  and  at  the  third  I  said  Vamos  !  and  at  the 
fourth  —  look  you,  I  am  here."  So  he  unlocks  the  door  and 
lights  the  stairway  with  his  lantern  until  I  have  ascended  the 
first  flight,  when  he  cheerily  calls  out,  "  Adios !  "  and  shuts 
me  into  darkness  which  I  am  expected  to  illuminate  for  my 
further  climb  by  striking  matches. 

Madrid  streets  are  by  no  means  altogether  delectable.  Some 
are  broad  and  well  kept,  but  others  are  narrow,  dirty,  and  malo- 
dorous. Worst  of  all,  to  my  own  thinking,  is  the  Madrid 
stare,  which,  hardly  less  offensive  than  the  Paris  stare,  is 
more  universal.  It  is  amusing  to  see  how  fearlessly  a  matron 
of  eighteen  sallies  forth  alone,  while  many  Madrid  spinsters 
of  fifty  would  not  go  a  block  unattended.  Nor  are  annoy- 
ances confined  to  staring.  Even  in  reputable  shops  a  woman 
soon  learns  to  be  on  her  guard,  when  her  attention  is  especially 
called  to  book  or  picture,  lest  it  prove  "  a  silliness." 

Madrid  is  better  than  the  cities  of  Andalusia,  and  worse 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  189 

than  the  cities  of  northern  Spain,  in  its  treatment  of  women. 
A  young  Spanish  girl  cannot  walk  alone,  however  sedately,  in 
Seville,  without  ,a  running  fire  of  salutations  —  "Oh,  the 
pretty  face  !  "  "  What  cheeks  of  rose  !  "  "  Blessed  be  thy 
mother  '  "  "  Give  me  a  little  smile  !  "  And  even  in  Madrid, 
Spanish  girls  of  my  acquaintance  have  broken  their  fans  across 
the  faces  of  men  who  tried  to  catch  a  kiss  in  passing. 

In  Madrid,  as  almost  everywhere  in  Spain,  begging  is  a 
leading  industry.  So  many  beg  from  laziness  or  greed  that 
it  is  easy  to  lose  patience,  the  most  essential  part  of  a 
traveller's  Spanish  outfit.  The  ear  is  wearied  by  the  everlast- 
ing drone  and  whine :  "  Oh,  dear  lady,  for  the  love  of  God  ! 
All  day  my  children  have  had  no  bread.  Give  me  five 
centimoSj  only  five  centimes,  and  Heaven  will  pay  you  back. 
Lady  !  lady  !  lady  !  lady  !  Five  centimes,  in  the  name  of  all 
the  saints  !  "  And  the  eye  is  offended  by  the  continual  obtru- 
sion of  ulcers,  cripplings,  and  deformities.  No  less  than 
Seville  and  Granada,  Madrid  abounds  with  child  beggars. 
There  were  two  jolly  little  cripples  on  the  Prado,  who  used 
to  race,  each  on  his  one  leg,  to  overtake  me  before  I  should 
reach  the  Museo  steps.  Another  boy,  on  whose  face  I  never 
saw  a  smile,  sat  at  the  corner  of  a  street  I  daily  passed,  hold- 
ing out  two  shapeless  blocks  of  hands.  By  the  gate  of  the 
Buen  Retire  was  stationed  a  blind  man,  with  a  girl  wean  on 
his  knee.  It  was  pathetic  and  amusing  to  see  him  feeding 
her  the  supper  of  bread  and  milk,  for  the  spoon  in  his  groping 
hand  and  the  pout  of  her  baby  mouth  often  failed  to  make 
connection. 

The  prevalence  of  eye  disease  in  Spain  is  probably  due  to 
sun,  to  dust,  and  to  generations  of  poverty.  The  pounding 


igo  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

of  a  blind  man's  stick  upon  the  pavement  is  one  of  the  most 
common  city  sounds.  The  charitable  may  often  be  seen 
leading  the  blind  across  the  streets.  I  tried  it  myself  once 
with  an  imperious  old  woman,  who  clung  to  the  curbstone 
some  twenty  minutes  before  she  could  muster  courage  for 
the  plunge,  lecturing  me  fluently  all  the  time  on  the  dangers 
of  a  rash  disposition.  There  are,  of  course,  many  cases  of 
fraud  —  cases  where,  when  the  day's  work  is  over,  the  blind 
see  and  the  lame  walk.  One  of  the  popular  capias  has  its 
fling  at  these  :  — 

"  The  armless  man  has  written  a  letter  ; 

The  blind  man  finds  the  writing  clear  ; 
The  mute  is  reading  it  aloud, 

And  the  deaf  man  runs  to  hear." 

Yet  it  is  certain  that  among  the  beggars  of  Madrid  is  a 
heartrending  amount  of  genuine  misery.  One  day  I  passed 
an  aged  ciego,  sitting  on  a  doorstep,  in  the  Alcala,  his  white 
head  bowed  upon  his  breast  in  such  utter  weariness  of  dejec- 
tion that  I  paused  to  find  him  a  copper.  But  better  charity 
than  mine  came  to  comfort  that  worn  heart.  A  lame  old 
peanut  woman  limped  up  to  him,  with  the  pity  of  the  wretched 
for  the  wretched.  She  drew  from  her  apron  pocket  a  coin 
which  I  had  rarely  seen  —  dos  centimes,  two-fifths  of  a  cent  in 
value.  An  Austrian,  who  had  lived  in  Spain  four  years,  told 
me  he  had  never  once  encountered  that  paltry  piece  of  money. 
But  she  could  not  spare  it  all.  c  Hast  thou  one  centime  for 
change,  brother  mine  ? "  she  asked.  And  the  blind  man's 
sensitive  fingers  actually  found  in  his  lean  leather  purse  that 
tiny  metal  bit,  which  only  the  poorest  of  the  poor  ever  see 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  191 

in  circulation.  He  gravely  kissed  the  coin  she  gave  and  made 
with  it  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  brow  and  breast,  saying, 
"  Blessed  be  this-  gift,  my  sister,  which  thy  mercy  has  bestowed 
on  a  man  of  many  troubles  !  May  our  Mother  Mary  keep 
for  thee  a  thornless  rose  !  " 

"  And  may  God,  who  sends  the  cold  according  to  our  rags, 
lighten  all  thy  griefs  !  Rest  thou  in  peace,"  she  replied. 

"  Go  thou  with  God,"  was  his  answer. 

Begging  was  a  recognized  and  licensed  industry  in  Madrid  a 
year  ago,  though  a  bill  of  reform,  whose  fate  I  have  failed  to 
learn,  was  then  under  consideration.  A  mother  would  gather 
her  brood  about  her  and  go  forth  for  her  day's  work.  They 
beg  up  and  down  their  accustomed  beat  during  the  morning, 
eat  as  their  gains  allow,  lie  down  in  the  dust  together  for  the 
afternoon  siesta,  and  rise  to  be  diligent  in  business  during  the 
hours  of  fashionable  promenade.  They  stop  pedestrians,  chase 
carriages,  press  into  shops  to  torment  the  customers  at  the 
counter,  and  reach  beseeching  palms  through  the  open  win- 
dows of  cafes.  Gentlemen  escorting  ladies  are  their  peculiar 
victims,  for  well  they  know  that  many  a  man  who  never  gives 
under  other  circumstances  is  ashamed  to  seem  ungenerous 
under  survey  of  starry  eyes. 

There  is  only  one  phrase  that  will  shake  off  the  professional 
beggar,  "  May  God  aid  you  !  "  On  hearing  this  he  makes  it 
a  point  of  religious  honor  to  fall  back.  But  as  I  could  not 
use  that  formula  without  feeling  myself  something  between  a 
shirk  and  a  hypocrite,  I  had  to  get  on  as  best  I  could  with  the 
ineffectual,  "  Pardon  me,  my  brother,"  to  which  should  properly 
be  added  Par  Dios  (for  God's  sake). 

The  Spanish  mendicant  knows  nothing  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

feeling,  "To  beg  I  am  ashamed."      No  Rare  Ben  Jonson 
has  thundered  in  his  ears  :  — 


"Art  thou  a  man  ?  and  sham'st  thou  not  to  beg  ? 
To  practise  such  a  servile  kind  of  life  ? 
Why,  were  thy  education  ne'er  so  mean, 
Having  thy  limbs,  a  thousand  fairer  courses 
Offer  themselves  to  thy  election. 
Either  the  wars  might  still  supply  thy  wants 
Or  service  of  some  virtuous  gentleman, 
Or  honest  labor  :  nay,  what  can  I  name, 
But  would  become  thee  better  than  to  beg  ? ' ' 

From  the  Spanish  point  of  view,  on  the  contrary,  it  is 
manual  labor,  not  beggary,  that  stains  the  escutcheon.  A 
German  lady  of  my  acquaintance  said  to  a  strongly  built  man 
who  was  pleading  for  alms,  "  If  you  will  carry  my  bag  up 
these  stairs,  I  will  gladly  pay  you."  Deeply  insulted,  he 
folded  his  cloak  about  him  with  hidalgo  dignity,  saying, 
u  Madame,  I  am  a  beggar,  not  a  laborer."  Certain  monas- 
teries send  out  brothers,  with  plates  and  bags,  on  a  daily  beg- 
ging round  —  brothers  who  may  belong  to  the  first  families 
of  Spain.  The  Church  is  often  cited  as  indorsing  mendicancy. 
Extolling  almsgiving  as  a  prime  virtue,  and  itself  maintaining 
a  vast  number  of  charitable  institutions,  it  has  not  yet  assimi- 
lated modern  methods  of  relief. 

A  favorite  story  for  children,  used  as  supplementary  read- 
ing in  the  schools,  is  called  "  The  Medal  of  the  Virgin." 
This  is,  in  fact,  a  Roman  Catholic  version  of  "  Fortunatus's 
Purse."  Its  small  heroine,  Mary  of  the  Angels,  is  an  orphan, 
defrauded  by  a  miser  of  her  rich  inheritance  and  treated  with 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  193 

barbarity  by  the  uncle  and  aunt  for  whom  she  is  an  uncom- 
plaining drudge.  But  once,  in  festive  hour,  they  give  her  five 
centimes,  which  this  generous  innocent  promptly  bestows  on 
a  beggar  woman,  who  holds  a  baby  in  her  ragged  arms.  In 
return,  the  beggar  gives  the  child  a  queer,  old-fashioned  mite 
of  a  coin,  which  turns  out  to  have  the  Wall  Street  quality 
of  heaving  up  a  little  mountain  of  gold  above  itself  every  hour 
or  two. 

Mary  of  the  Angels  sallies  forth  for  a  tour  of  the  country, 
pouring  handfuls  of  gold  into  the  laps  of  the  beggars  who  sit 
at  the  church  doors  and  city  gates,  until  she  is  escorted  wher- 
ever she  goes  by  an  army  of  the  halt  and  blind  singing  her 
praises.  At  last,  having  given  away  such  Pyrenees  of  gold  that 
not  a  beggar  could  be  found  in  all  the  land  for  a  century  to 
come,  the  footsore  little  philanthropist  begs  the  Virgin  to  re- 
lieve her  of  the  coin.  The  Madonna  descends  in  a  beam  of 
light,  the  Christ  Child  smiling  from  her  arms,  yet  in  the  radiant 
group  Mary  of  the  Angels  recognizes  the  objects  of  her  earliest 
charity.  "  For  I,"  explains  the  Madonna,  "  am  the  holy  beg- 
gar from  heaven.  The  poor  of  the  earth  give  me  their  tears 
and  prayers,  and  for  such  alms  do  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  all 
the  sorrowful." 

Yet  the  progressive  element  in  Spain  is  all  the  more  ashamed 
of  the  beggars  because  they  are  not  ashamed  of  themselves,  and 
a  few  years  may  s.ee  Madrid  swept  as  clear  of  mendicancy  as 
is  San  Sebastian  to-day. 

Madrid  is  such  an  easy-going  city  that  one  hardly  realizes 
at  first  how  well  it  performs  certain  of  its  functions.  Its 
water  supply,  for  instance,  is  excellent,  although  when  one 
sees  the  picturesque  groups,  with  those  same  clay  water-jars 


194  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

over  which  Rebecca  smiled  on  Jacob,  lingering  about  the  gray 
stone  fountains,  one  expects  a  patriarchal  flavor  in  the  liquid. 
The  tramway  service  of  Madrid,  everything  radiating  from 
the  Puerto  del  Sol,  is  most  convenient,  although  electricity  is  a 
little  slow  in  coming  to  the  relief  of  horse-flesh.  The  shops, 
fairly  well  stocked,  gild  commerce  with  Spanish  graces.  You 
accept  a  chair,  you  pass  the  courtesies  of  the  day,  the  gentle- 
man who  serves  you,  often  with  cigar  in  mouth,  is  seldom 
sure  as  to  just  what  goods  he  has  on  hand,  and  is  still  more 
rarely  dogmatic  as  to  their  price. 

The  tug  of  war,  however,  comes  in  getting  them  delivered. 
Ten  days  before  quitting  Madrid  I  bought  at  one  of  the  best 
of  the  librerlas  a  number  of  books,  including  several  illustrated 
catalogues  of  the  Velazquez  sala.  These  last  were  pretty 
trifles  bound  in  white  parchment,  and  as  I  intended  them  for 
gifts,  I  wanted  fresh  copies.  "You  wish  them  clean,  all  of 
them  ?  "  asked  the  proprietor,  with  an  accent  of  surprise.  I 
replied  that  I  did,  and  would  moreover  be  obliged  if  he  could 
fit  them  with  envelopes  ready  for  mailing.  Envelopes  he  had 
none,  but  he  promised  to  tie  them  up  in  separate  parcels. 
"  And  books  and  bill  will  come  without  fail  this  afternoon  ?  " 
He  looked  pained  to  the  heart.  "This  very  morning,  senora. 
You  will  find  them  awaiting  you  on  your  return."  On  the 
third  day  I  sent  a  note,  and  on  the  fifth  a  boy  arrived  with 
the  bulk  of  my  purchase,  but  no  catalogues  nor  bill.  I  ex- 
plained to  the  lad,  who  smilingly  besought  me  to  give  myself 
no  concern,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  city  for 
good,  and  preferred  not  to  go  away  in  debt ;  but  the  days 
passed,  and  my  inability  to  extort  that  reckoning  became  the 
jest  of  the  household.  At  last,  driven  to  desperate  measures, 


'CHRIST    OF   THE    SEVEN    WORDS ' 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  195 

I  went  through  noonday  heat  to  the  store,  and  actually  found 
that  procrastinating  bookseller  scattering  cigar  ashes  over  a 
little  heap  of  catalogues,  while  he  contemplated  the  pictures 
of  each  copy  in  turn.  "  Behold,  sefiora,"  he  exclaimed,  as 
serenely  as  if  not  ten  minutes  had  elapsed  since  our  parting, 
"  here  I  have  for  you  immaculate  booklets,  stainless,  faultless, 
such  as  will  rejoice  those  fortunate  friends  to  whom  you  have 
the  amiability  to  send  them.  And  I  am  this  instant  about  to 
prepare  them  for  the  post  with  inviolate  security." 

I  expressed  my  obligations,  but  entreated  him  to  draw  up 
the  account  and  let  me  settle  it  then  and  there,  as  I  was 
within  twenty-four  hours  of  departure.  "  And  in  travelling," 
I  added  apologetically,  "  it  is  difficult  to  send  back  money." 
At  the  obnoxious  word  he  flung  up  hands  and  eyebrows. 
"  Senora !  "  I  left  the  shop,  feeling  vaguely  that  I  had  been 
guilty  of  a  flagrant  indelicacy,  as  well  as  black  ingratitude. 
The  catalogues,  very  slightly  wrapped,  arrived  on  the  morrow, 
just  in  time  to  be  thrust  into  my  shawl  strap,  and  I  paid  the 
bill  amid  the  final  agitation,  so  unfavorable  to  arithmetic,  of 
porters  and  farewells. 

I  had  worse  fortune  in  trying  to  subscribe  for  a  certain 
popular  periodical.  I  went  to  the  office  in  the  designated 
business  hours,  to  find  that,  of  the  three  men  who  should  have 
been  there,  one  had  already  gone,  one  had  not  arrived,  and  the 
third  had  "stepped  out  for  a  little  rest."  The  janitor  left 
in  charge,  a  sympathetic  person  who  could  not  read  nor  write, 
thought  if  I  would  return  on  Sunday  at  my  luncheon  hour, 
there  might  be  somebody  there  qualified  to  receive  my  sub- 
scription and  address,  but,  he  sagely  added,  "  in  this  world  we 
are  sure  of  nothing." 


196  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

Madrid  possesses  the  Biblioteca  Nacional  with  valuable 
manuscripts  and  something  like  one  million  books,  hand- 
somely housed,  where  arrangements  are  made  for  over  three 
hundred  readers,  but  here,  as  in  the  other  Spanish  cities, 
public  libraries  in  the  American  sense  of  libraries  largely  used 
by  the  general  public  are  practically  non-existent.  The  book- 
stores, too,  except  for  the  latest  Spanish  publications,  leave 
much  to  be  desired.  As  a  rule,  one  can  get  only  the  most 
meagre  information  concerning  texts  and  editions  of  the 
national  classics,  and  the  supply  ot  new  French  novels  or 
new  German  plays  is  far  less  complete  than  the  stock  of 
Paris  gloves  and  German  cutlery.  This  last,  so  canny  have 
the  honest  Teutons  grown,  is  usually  engraved  Toledo. 

In  variety  of  weather,  however,  Madrid  surpasses  all  ex- 
pectations, furnishing  the  sultriest  heat,  the  chilliest  cold,  the 
dustiest  dust,  and  the  most  prodigious  crashes  of  thunder  and 
lumps  of  hail  to  be  found  in  the  meteorological  market,  and 
all  these  within  a  few  hours  of  one  another.  But  what  with 
fans,  braseros,  balconies,  borchaterias,  an  army  of  street  water- 
ers,  and,  most  essential  of  all,  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  good 
humor,  the  Madrileno  contrives  to  live  on  friendly  terms  with 
his  climate,  although  he  dares  not  lay  aside  his  cloak  before 
"  the  fortieth  of  May." 

Apart  from  bull-fights  and  riots,  those  rages  of  excitement 
that  seem  to  indicate  a  periodical  fevering  of  the  southern 
blood,  the  Madrileno  takes  his  pleasures  with  a  dignified  sim- 
plicity. The  city  is  exceedingly  rich  in  open  squares,  well- 
shaded  parks,  and  long  reaches  of  green  promenade,  and  here, 
with  several  dozen  cigarettes  and  a  few  coppers  for  water  and 

az^  he  wiles   the  hours  away,  chatting  with   friends   and 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  197 

admiring  the  ladies  who  roll  past  in  spruce  landaus.  Over 
the  gate  of  the  social  paradise  of  Madrid  it  must  be  written, 
u  No  admittance  except  in  coaches,"  for  a  carriage  seems 
essential  to  high  life.  Liveried  coachman,  rather  than  pow- 
dered butler,  is  the  sine  qua  non.  During  the  hot  season  this 
outdoor  parade  is  in  gay  career  at  midnight,  and  whole  fami- 
lies, babies  and  nurses  included,  may  be  seen  gathered  in 
festive  knots  around  small  refreshment  tables,  within  sound 
of  fountain  spray  and  garden  music.  There  are  open-air 
concerts,  and  concerts  in  smoke-beclouded  halls,  greensward 
dances,  and  dances  stepped  on  cafe  tables  among  disordered 
clusters  of  bottles  and  glasses,  and  there  is  always  the  theatre, 
on  which  your  Spaniard  dotes. 

In  the  winter  season  there  is  opportunity  to  enjoy  classic 
drama  at  the  Teatro  Espanol,  where  the  Bernhardt  of  Spain, 
"  La  Guerrero,"  supported  by  her  grandee  husband,  Mendoza, 
holds  sway.  When  I  saw  them  they  were  using  short 
farces  of  Cervantes  and  Lope  de  Rueda  for  curtain  raisers  to 
a  romantic  drama  by  Tirso  de  Molina  and  a  modern  society 
play  by  Echegaray.  I  saw  them,  too,  in  Zorrilla's  singular 
dramatic  version  of  "  Don  Juan,"  the  only  play  allowed  in 
Spanish  theatres  on  the  night  of  All  Saints, 

From  March  to  November,  however,  the  Teatro  Espanol  is 
closed,  and  there  is  little  doing  at  the  Teatro  Real,  an  aristo- 
cratic temple  of  Italian  opera.  During  the  summer  season 
the  theatrical  opportunities  of  Madrid  are  mainly  limited  to 
the  popular  zarzuelas,  or  operettas,  four  of  which  are  usually 
given  in  an  evening.  Each  theatre  offers  a  new  programme  of 
these  every  night,  but  there  is  little  of  literary  interest  except, 
now  and  then,  a  taking  trifle  from  the  pen  of  Hartzenbusch 
or  Echegaray. 


198  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

The  Madrid  theatre  recks  naught  of  early  risers.  The 
opening  vaudeville  is  seldom  under  way  before  nine  o'clock  j 
the  house  is  cleared  after  each  performance,  and  often  the 
encores  and  repetitions  prolong  a  popular  zarzuela  quite  beyond 
the  hour  limit.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  audience  is  small, 
the  opening  piece  may  be  cut  down  to  the  merest  outline.  I 
remember  one  such  occasion  when  the  boxes  were  so  empty 
and  the  farce  so  familiar  that  the  orchestra  fairly  chaffed  the 
actors  off  the  stage.  "  Enough,  enough  !  Thou  mayst  with- 
draw !  "  chanted  the  lyric  lover  to  an  intruding  servant.  "And 
so  mayst  thou,"  called  out  a  voice  from  among  the  violins. 
"  I've  told  my  passion  to  the  stars,"  continued  the  actor  in 
his  most  mellifluous  tenor,  making  the  distant  love  of  the 
Spanish  stage  to  a  lady  who  was  smiling  frankly  on  the  auda- 
cious fiddler.  "  Poor  stars  !  "  interpolated  this  worthy  so 
sympathetically  that  everybody  laughed,  the  singer  wound  up 
his  transports  in  the  shortest  possible  order,  and  the  remaining 
scenes  were  hardly  more  than  pantomime.  But  such  was 
the  universal  good  nature  and  indifference  to  business  exacti- 
tudes, that  neither  artists  nor  ticket-holders  took  this  curtail- 
ment of  their  rights  in  umbrage. 

Among  the  excellences  of  Madrid  must  be  counted  her 
museos.  The  Armeria,  with  its  plumed  and  steel-clad  warriors, 
all  at  tourney,  is  no  mere  lumber  room  of  wicked  old  iron,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  but  a  new  canto  of  the  "  Faery 
Queene."  The  Museo  Naval  still  smells  of  the  boundless  brine 
and  Isles  of  Spicery.  The  Museo  Arqueolbgico  Nacional  sweeps 
one,  as  on  the  magic  carpet  of  Alhambra  legend,  through  the 
entire  tragedy  of  Spain.  Here  are  the  successive  leaves  of 
her  strange  picture-book  —  scratched,  prehistoric  flints,  grass- 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  199 

woven  Iberian  sandals,  rudely  sculptured  shapes  in  sandstone 
grasping  wine  cups  that  suggest  whole  Rubaiyats,  Phoenician 
anchors,  bronze  tables  of  Roman  laws,  Moorish  arabesques, 
mediaeval  altars,  modern  wares  and  fineries,  while  barbaric 
spoils  of  Peruvian  idols,  Mexican  feather-shields,  sacrificial 
stones,  and  figures  of  forest  lords  speak  to  the  imagination 
of  that  vast  colonial  empire  which  rose  out  of  a  dream  to 
melt  again  like  very  dreamstufF,  leaving  "  not  a  rack  behind." 
These  I  have  seen,  but  there  are  twice  as  many  more  Madrid 
museums  which  I  had  not  time  to  see,  and  which,  I  am  told, 
are  no  less  rich  in  rarities  and  no  less  effective  in  pictorial 
beauty  of  arrangement. 

Of  the  art  galleries,  who  can  say  enough  ?  The  supreme 
Museo  del  Prado  so  magnetizes  pilgrim  feet  that  it  is  hard  to 
spare  even  a  few  hours  for  the  Academia  de  Bellas  Artes,  with 
its  grand  Murillos  and  calm  Zurbarans,  or  the  Museo  de  Arte 
Moderno,  with  its  succession  of  canvases  depicting  scene  upon 
scene  of  death,  decay,  murder,  execution,  starvation,  battle, 
torture,  frenzy.  Whatever  is  most  horrible  in  the  story  of 
the  Peninsula  —  Juana  the  Mad  staring  at  her  husband's 
coffin,  the  bloody  fall  of  the  betrayed  Torrijos  and  his  band, 
the  nobles  of  Portugal  doing  shuddering  homage  to  the  exhumed 
corpse  of  Inez  de  Castro,  all  that  moves  disgust,  distress, 
dismay,  seems  flaunted  here.  The  technique  is  French,  but 
the  subjects  are  Spanish.  Many  of  the  pictures  have  historical 
dignity  and  faithfulness,  a  few  reproduce  the  modern  national 
types,  with  a  preference  for  bull-fighters  and  anarchists  over 
fishermen  and  peasants,  but  one  misses  the  spiritual  beauty 
that  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  spiritual  terror  of  the  older 
art.  Do  the  Spanish  painters  of  to-day  derive  only  from 
Goya  and  Ribera  ? 


2OO  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

The  old-time  popular  ceremonies  are  fast  fading  out  of 
Europeanized  Madrid.  Even  the  Christmas  mirth  is  waning, 
though  still  on  Noche  Buena  the  Plaza  Mayor  is  close  set  with 
booths,  and  the  Infanta  Isabel,  muy  Madrilena  that  she  is, 
makes  a  point  of  driving  through  and  heaping  her  carriage 
with  fairings.  On  Twelfth  Night,  too,  there  are  a  few  small 
boys  to  be  seen  scampering  about  the  streets,  looking  for  the 
arrival  of  the  Magi.  Every  year  drops  something  of  the 
mediaeval  heritage,  and  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to  chronicle 
the  passing  of  one  of  Madrid's  most  ancient  and  comfortable 
rites.  The  principal  saint  days  of  June,  July,  and  August 
are  preceded  by  verbenas,  or  evening  fairs,  chief  among  these 
being  the  Verbena  de  San  'Juan,  on  Midsummer  Night.  Many 
a  baby  has  a  grand  frolic  this  evening,  rocked  back  and  forth 
on  his  mamma's  knees,  laughing  eyes  to  laughing  eyes,  while 
she  dips  her  head  to  his  and  tickles  his  little  neck  with  kisses 
in  time  to  the  ancient  ditty  :  — 

"  Recotin,  recoton  ! 
The  bells  of  St.  John  ! 
There's  a  festival  on. 
Recotin,  recotin,  recoton  !" 

Far  along  the  Prado  gleam  the  busy  fires  over  which  are 
merrily  bubbling  the  oiliest  and  brownest  of  bunuelos.  The 
rows  of  lighted  stalls,  which  have  sprung  up  like  mush- 
rooms on  either  side  of  the  promenade,  present  to  the  revel- 
ling, roving,  shifting  throng  an  amazing  variety  of  tawdry 
knickknacks,  ingeniously  devised  to  meet  no  human  want. 
As  we  drove  slowly  up  and  down,  enjoying  the  scene,  while 
beggars  ran  beside  the  carriage  and  hawkers  darted  out  upon 


The  Yolk  of  the  Spanish  Egg  201 

us  with  shrill  cries,  the  "  American  girl  "  of  our  little  group 
strove  earnestly  to  find  "  something  to  buy." 

The  most  useful  and  convenient  article  for  a  traveller  that 
could  be  discovered  was  a  pasteboard  bull's  head  on  a  long 
stick,  but  her  chaperon,  mindful  of  trunk  dimensions,  dis- 
couraged this  purchase  so  effectively  that  Little  Boston 
gracefully  made  herself  amends  by  presenting  us  all  with 
images  of  St.  John.  These  scandalously  represented  the 
Baptist  as  a  ballet  girl  in  short  cotton-wool  skirts  and  gilt 
ribbons,  waving  a  banner  with  one  hand  and  leading  a  two- 
legged  lamb  with  the  other. 

As  midnight  drew  near,  carriages  and  foot-folk  all  pressed 
toward  the  stately  Cybele  fountain.  It  seems  that  there  was 
once,  in  the  Puerto  del  Sol,  a  magic  spring  whose  waters, 
sprinkled  at  Midsummer  Midnight  on  the  most  unlikely 
head,  insured  a  wedding  within  the  year.  Trams  and  cabs, 
riots  and  bloodshed,  drove  the  precious  charm  away  to  the  Prado, 
even  to  this  same  Cybele  fountain,  which  for  many  genera- 
tions has  continued  to  work  bridal  miracles.  So  recently  as 
1898,  as  soon  as  the  clock  in  the  tower  of  the  stately  Bank 
of  Spain  struck  midnight,  with  wedding  cadences  lingering  in 
its  peal,  eager  feet  went  splashing  through  the  broad  marble 
basin,  and  the  enchanted  water,  thrown  by  handfuls  and  cupfuls 
far  out  over  the  crowd,  sparkled  even  on  bald  pates  and  wigs. 

But  alas  for  Madrid  and  her  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ! 
Some  prosaic  person  got  wet  and  tattled  to  the  Alcalde.  So 
when  in  natural  agitation,  on  our  only  Verbena  of  St.  John, 
we  had  persuaded  the  compassionate  coachman  to  drive  as 
close  as  close  might  be  to  the  fountain,  we  encountered  a 
bristling,  unromantic  railing,  and  outside  of  this  a  grim  circle 


2O2  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

of  police,  frowning  menace  on  that  disconcerted  host.  Every 
moment  more  carriages,  with  veiled  ladies  and  rheumatic  gen- 
tlemen, dashed  up,  and  the  indignant  crowd  surged  forward  to 
the  very  buttons  of  authority.  But  midnight  chimed  in  vain. 
One  desperate  graybeard  vaulted  over  the  railing,  only  to  be 
hustled  back  with  contumely.  In  general,  however,  that 
great  press  of  people  remained  as  meek  as  the  lions  of  Cy- 
bele's  chariot — a  lack  of  spirit  only  to  be  accounted  for  by 
remembering  that  this  midnight  company  was  made  up  of  the 
shamefaced  and  rejected,  such  an  assemblage  of  blighted 
beings  as,  now  that  the  last  spell  is  snapped,  earth  will  never 
see  again.  Even  the  decorous  Cybele  laughed  in  her  marble 
sleeve. 

So  passes  the  old  Madrid ;  but  there  is  a  new  Madrid,  of 
which  a  word  still  waits  to  be  said. 


XIV 

A    STUDY    IN    CONTRASTS 

"  Here  you  have  them,  the  two  Spains,  unlike,  antagonistic,  squared  for  conflict." 

—  Vida  Nue-va. 

THE  world-old  struggle  between  conservatism  and 
advance  is  at  its  most  dramatic  point  in  Spain. 
The  united  forces  of  clericalism  and  militarism 
work  for  the  continuance  of  ancient  institutions,  methods, 
ideas,  and  those  leaders  who  do  battle  in  the  name  of  lib- 
eralism are  too  often  nothing  more  than  selfish  politicians. 
But  with  all  these  odds  against  progress,  it  is  making  way. 
The  mass  of  the  people,  kept  so  long  in  the  darkness  of 
ignorance  #nd  superstition,  are  looking  toward  the  light. 
During  my  last  week  in  Madrid  I  chanced  upon  two  extreme 
expressions  of  these  warring  principles.  The  first  was  a 
royal  and  religious  ceremony,  the  second  a  monster  mass 
meeting,  —  the  one  intent  on  cherishing  the  past,  the  other 
clamoring  at  the  gates  of  the  future. 

I  was  looking  over  the  Impartial  as  I  took  my  coffee  one 
morning,  when  my  eye  fell  on  an  item  to  the  effect  that  there 
would  be  capilla  publica  en  Palacio  at  ten  o'clock.  A  traveller 
learns  to  jump  at  opportunity.  Public  service  in  the  royal 
chapel  promised  to  be  of  interest,  and  half-past  nine  found  me 

203 


204  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

waiting,  with  a  miscellaneous  company  of  gentles  and  tatter- 
demalions, natives  and  foreigners,  on  the  palace  side  of  the 
Plaza  de  Armas,  the  expectant  throng  streaming  far  down  the 
paved  and  covered  way.  We  were  well  marshalled  by  sol- 
diers, who  kept  the  crowd  in  form  of  a  long  troop,  and  banded 
this  by  military  lines,  with  gleaming  bayonets.  These  bands, 
but  a  few  feet  apart,  were  effectual  in  preventing  crowding 
and  disorder,  and  when  at  last  the  doors  were  thrown  open, 
a  double  rank  of  soldiers  closed  in  before  the  portal  as  often 
as  the  entering  file  showed  any  tendency  to  press  and  hurry, 
and  thus  passed  us  through  by  small  divisions,  so  that  there 
was  no  unseemly  struggling  on  the  succession  of  bare,  plain 
stairways  that  led  to  the  upper  galleries. 

For  "  public  service  in  the  royal  chapel,"  I  was  now  to 
discover,  does  not  mean  that  the  public  is  admitted  to  the 
chapel  itself.  This  is  small,  but  very  Spanish,  with  profusion 
of  gilding,  imposing  altar,  and  frescoed  saints,  the  character- 
istic splendor  being  tempered  with  a  no  less  characteristic 
gloom,  an  effect  enhanced  by  austere  columns  of  gray  marble. 
On  days  of  public  service,  which  are  usually  high  feast  days, 
three  long  galleries,  forming  three  sides  of  a  great  quadrangle, 
are  traversed  by  the  court  in  passing  from  the  royal  rooms  to 
the  chapel  door,  and  it  is  to  these  galleries  only  that  the  public 
is  admitted.  On  such  occasions  the  gallery  walls  are  hung 
with  richly  colored  tapestries  from  the  magnificent  collection 
of  eight  hundred  pieces  that  enriches  the  royal  Tapiceria. 

The  instant  I  crossed  the  threshold  these  tapestries  blazed 
upon  the  eye,  so  dazzling  in  their  beauty  that  it  was  difficult 
to  grasp  the  general  situation.  Civil  Guards,  in  gala  uniform, 
each  armed  with  a  pike  taller  than  himself,  were  stationed  at 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  205 

intervals  of  about  six  feet  all  along  these  tapestried  walls, 
holding  the  carpeted  way  open  for  the  passage  of  the  royal 
and  ecclesiastical  party.  The  public  hastened  to  fill  in  the 
spaces  left  between  the  guards,  so  that  when  the  dignitaries 
paced  the  length  of  the  three  galleries,  they  walked  between 
continuous  human  lines  of  mingled  soldiery  and  spectators. 
We  were  of  various  ages,  sizes,  colors,  and  quite  as  pictu- 
resque, take  it  all  in  all,  as  the  slowly  stepping  group  on 
which  our  eyes  were  focussed. 

A  division  of  the  royal  escort,  marching  with  drawn  swords, 
preceded  the  Queen  Regent,  a  slight  and  elegant  figure  in 
white  and  heliotrope,  her  mantilla  pinned  with  diamonds. 
She  walked  in  royal  solitude,  with  a  bearing  of  majesty  and 
grace,  but  her  face  had  a  hard  and  almost  sour  look,  which  of 
itself  might  account  for  her  unpopularity.  The  King  and  the 
younger  Infanta  did  not  take  part  in  the  day's  ceremony,  but 
the  Princess  of  Asturias  followed  her  mother,  a  fresh-faced 
girl,  charmingly  dressed  in  white  and  blue,  with  pearls  and 
turquoises.  A  respectful  step  or  two  in  the  rear  of  her  niece, 
yet  at  her  side  rather  than  behind,  came  in  rich  green  silk 
adorned  with  emeralds  the  stout,  gray-puffed,  easy-going  In- 
fanta Isabel,  her  broad,  florid  face  beaming  with  affability. 
The  guards  had  passed  stern  word  down  the  line  for  all  hats 
to  be  off,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  greeting,  so  far  as  I  saw, 
from  the  spectators  to  the  royal  party,  except  as  now  and  then 
some  happy  Spaniard  bowed  him  to  the  dust  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  a  nod,  as  familiar  as  a  wink,  from  this  popular 
Infanta. 

The  occasion  of  this  stately  function  was  the  elevation  of 
the  Papal  Nuncio  to  the  rank  of  cardinal.  He  passed  in  all 


206  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

priestly  magnificence  of  vestments  and  jewels,  his  red  hat 
borne  before  him  on  a  cushion.  He  was  attended  by  the 
chief  clerics  of  Court  and  capital,  but  even  these  gorgeous 
personages  were  outshone  by  the  military  and  naval  officers, 
whose  breasts  were  a  mosaic  of  medals,  and  whose  headgear 
such  erections  of  vainglory  as  to  hush  the  crested  cockatoo 
with  shame.  The  Gentlemen  of  the  Palace,  too,  were  such 
peacocks  in  their  glittering  coats  of  many  colors,  their  plumes 
and  sashes,  gold  lace  and  silver  lace,  that  the  plump  Ladies  in 
Waiting,  for  all  their  pride  of  velvet,  satin,  and  brocade,  looked 
like  mere  hens  in  the  wake  of  strutting  chanticleers. 

The  American  mind  is  ill  prepared  to  do  homage  to  the 
dress  parades  of  European  courts,  and  I  laid  by  the  memory 
to  laugh  over  when  I  should  have  reached  a  place  and  hour 
where  laughter  would  be  inoffensive.  As  the  Diplomatic 
Corps,  in  its  varied  costumes,  came  trooping  on,  twice  a 
whisper  ran  along  the  gazing  lines.  "  The  Turk  !  "  and  the 
traditional  enemy  of  Spain  limped  smilingly  past,  a  bent, 
shrewd-faced  old  Mussulman,  whose  Oriental  finery  was 
topped  by  the  red  fez.  "  The  Yankee  !  "  and  Spain's  latest 
adversary  strode  by  in  the  person  of  the  newly  arrived  United 
States  Minister,  decorously  arrayed  in  dress  suit  and  a  Catholic 
expression. 

The  chapel  doors  closed  on  this  haughty  train,  and  we,  the 
invited  public,  cheerily  proceeded  to  pass  a  social  hour  or  two 
in  chat  and  promenade  and  in  contemplation  of  the  tapestries. 
Even  the  Civil  Guards  unbent,  dancing  their  babies,  lending 
their  pikes  to  delighted  urchins,  and  raising  forbidden  cur- 
tains to  give  their  womenkind  furtive  peeps  into  the  royal 
apartments.  Most  astonishing  was  the  maltreatment  of  those 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  207 

priceless  tapestries.  Small  boys,  unrebuked,  played  at  hide 
and  seek  under  the  heavy  folds,  old  men  traced  the  patterns 
with  horny  fingjers,  and  the  roughest  fellows  from  the  streets 
lounged  stupidly  against  them,  rubbing  dirty-jacketed  shoulders 
over  the  superb  coloring.  The  most  splendid  series  displayed 
was  from  a  master-loom  of  the  Netherlands,  illustrating  the 
conquest  of  Tunis  by  Charles  V — marvellously  vivid  scenes, 
where  one  beholds  the  spread  of  mighty  camps,  the  battle 
shock  of  great  armies  and  navies,  and,  like  shrill  chords  of  pain 
in  some  wild  harmony,  the  countless  individual  tragedies  of 
war.  The  scimitar  of  the  Turk  flashes  down  on  the  Spanish 
neck,  while  the  upturned  eyes  are  still  too  fierce  for  terror ; 
the  turbaned  chief  leans  from  his  gold-wrought  saddle  to  scan 
the  severed  heads  that  two  blood-stained  sons  of  the  prophet 
are  emulously  holding  up  to  his  survey,  hoping  to  recognize 
in  those  ghastly  faces  enemies  of  rank  ;  white-robed  women 
on  the  strand,  their  little  ones  clinging  to  their  knees,  reach 
arms  of  helpless  anguish  toward  the  smitten  galley  of  their 
lords,  who  are  leaping  into  the  waves  for  refuge  from  the 
Christian  cannonade. 

I  wondered  how  the  Turkish  Minister  liked  those  tapestries, 
as  his  stooped-back  Excellency  passed  in  conference  with  a 
Chinese  mandarin,  who  must  have  studied  his  costume  from  a 
teacup.  For  we  had  all  been  hustled  into  rows  again  to  make 
that  human  lane  through  which  the  Royalties  and  the  Rever- 
ends returned  from  their  devotions.  I  was  facing  a  quaint 
old  tapestry  of  Christ  enthroned  in  glory,  with  the  beasts  of 
the  Apocalypse  climbing  over  Him  like  pet  kittens,  and  this 
so  distracted  my  attention  that  I  omitted  to  ask  the  amiable 
Infanta  Isabel,  who  would,  I  am  sure,  have  told  anybody  any- 


2o8  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

thing,  what  had  taken  place.  But  I  read  it  all  in  the  Epocha 
that  evening  —  how  her  Majesty  with  her  own  august  hands 
had  fitted  the  red  hat  to  the  Nuncio's  tonsured  head,  and  how 
the  new-made  cardinal  had  addressed  her  in  a  grateful  oration, 
praising  her  virtues  as  manifested  in  "  the  double  character  of 
queen  and  mother,  an  example  rich  in  those  peculiar  gifts  by 
which  your  Royal  Grace  has  won  the  veneration  and  love 
of  the  noble  and  chivalrous  Spanish  people,  the  especial 
affection  of  the  Father  of  the  Faithful,  and  the  respect  and 
sympathy  of  all  the  world."  For  her  and  for  the  youthful 
monarch  of  Spain  he  invoked  the  favor  of  Heaven,  and  uttered 
a  fervent  hope  that  the  cup  of  bitterness  which  this  most 
Catholic  nation  had  bowed  herself  to  drink  might  be  blessed 
to  her  in  a  renewal  of  strength  and  a  reconquest  of  her  ancient 
preeminence  among  the  peoples  of  the  earth. 

The  most  significant  expression  of  "  new  Spain  "  that  I 
encountered  in  Madrid  was  a  mass  meeting  —  a  rare  and 
novel  feature  in  Spanish  public  life.  I  blundered  upon  it  as 
foolishly  as  one  well  could.  The  second  day  of  July  was  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  founding  of  a  daring  Madrid  weekly, 
the  Vida  Nueva,  to  which,  attracted  by  its  literary  values,  as 
well  as  its  political  courage,  I  had  subscribed.  The  sheet  is 
usually  issued  Sunday,  but  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  going  out 
one  Saturday  afternoon  my  Vida  Nueva  arrived,  accompanied 
by  two  non-committal  tickets.  They  gave  entrance  to  the 
Fronton  Central,  "  only  that  and  nothing  more."  I  called  one 
of  the  pretty  senoritas  of  the  household  into  council,  and  she 
sagely  decided  that  these  were  tickets  to  pelota,  the  Basque  ball 
game,  played  in  one  or  another  of  the  various  Madrid  halls 
almost  every  summer  afternoon.  It  seemed  a  little  too  con- 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  209 

siderate  in  the  Vida  Nueva  to  provide  for  the  recreation  of  its 
subscribers,  but  I  was  growing  accustomed  to  surprises  of 
Spanish  courtesy,  and  tucked  the  tickets  away  in  a  safe  corner. 
The  folded  newspaper  rustled  and  whispered,  and  finally  flut- 
tered to  my  feet,  but  I  was  eager  to  be  off,  and,  after  the 
blind  fashion  of  mortals,  put  it  by. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  dine  that  day  with  two  com- 
patriots, and  one  of  these,  who  knows  and  loves  Spain 
better  than  many  Spaniards  do,  began  at  once  to  tell  me 
of  that  most  unusual  occurrence,  a  Madrid  mass  meeting,  to 
take  place  this  very  evening.  Of  course  we  resolved  to  go, 
although  my  friend's  husband  was  not  in  the  city,  and  no 
other  escort  would  countenance  so  harebrained  an  expedition. 
For  the  street  to  which  this  valiant  lady  led  the  way  was 
choked  with  a  flood  of  men  surging  toward  an  open  door. 
The  hall  for  the  "  meeting,"  a  word  which  the  Spanish  lan- 
guage has  fully  adopted,  was  the  Fronton  Central,  and  admis- 
sion was  by  ticket.  Light  dawned  on  my  dim  wits,  and, 
while  my  two  companions,  with  dignified  and  tranquil  mien, 
stood  themselves  up  against  the  outer  wall,  I  besought  a  lei- 
surely cabman,  who  insisted  on  waiting  to  pick  up  a  little 
ragamuffin  clamoring  for  a  ride,  to  drive  me  in  hot  haste  to 
my  domicile.  Here  I  searched  out  the  tickets,  put  away  only 
too  carefully,  and  took  a  fleeting  glance  at  the  Vida  Nueva, 
which  urged  all  "  men  of  heart "  to  celebrate  the  eve  of  its 
anniversary  by  their  presence  at  this  mass  meeting. 

I  had  not  realized  that  there  were  so  many  men  of  heart  in 
Madrid.  The  street  on  my  return  was  worse  than  before. 
The  cabman  objected  strenuously  to  leaving  us  in  these  tem- 
pestuous surroundings,  and,  since  there  were  only  two  tickets, 


lio  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

we  two  elders  of  the  trio  agreed  that  the  American  girl  was  all 
too  young  for  such  an  escapade,  and  forthwith  despatched  her, 
under  his  fatherly  care,  to  the  hotel.  Then  came  the  tug  of 
war.  We  saw  men  fighting  fiercely  about  the  door,  we  heard 
the  loud  bandying  of  angry  words,  we  were  warned  again  and 
again  that  we  could  never  get  through  the  jam,  we  were  told 
that,  tickets  or  no  tickets,  ladies  would  not,  could  not,  and 
should  not  be  admitted ;  it  was  darkly  hinted  that,  before  the 
evening  was  over,  there  would  be  wild  and  bloody  work  within 
those  walls.  But  we  noticed  a  few  other  women  in  the  throng, 
and  decided,  from  moment  to  moment,  to  wait  a  little  longer, 
and  see  what  happened  next.  Meanwhile,  we  were  almost 
unjostled  in  the  midst  of  that  excited,  struggling  crowd,  often 
catching  the  words  :  "  Stand  back  there  !  Don't  press  on  the 
ladies  !  Leave  room  !  "  And  when  it  came  to  the  final  dash 
we  had  well-nigh  a  clear  passage.  Our  tickets  gave  access 
only  to  the  floor  of  a  big,  oblong  hall,  closely  packed  with  a 
standing  mass  of  some  ten  thousand  men  ;  but  a  debonair  per- 
sonage in  authority  conducted  us,  with  more  chivalry  than 
justice,  to  the  reserved  boxes  in  the  gallery,  where  we  occu- 
pied perfect  seats,  —  for  which  other  people  probably  held 
tickets,  —  in  the  front  row,  overlooking  all  the  house. 

So  much  for  Spanish  indulgence  to  audacious  womenfolk. 
But  as  to  the  meeting  itself,  what  was  it  all  about  ?  In  Spain 
one  word  suffices  for  an  answer.  Montjuicb  has  become  a 
Liberal  rallying  cry,  although  the  movement  is  not  bound  in 
by  party  lines.  It  is  the  Dreyfus  affaire  in  a  Spanish  edition. 
The  Castello  de  Montjuicb  is  a  strong  fortress,  with  large  maga- 
zines and  quarters  for  ten  thousand  soldiers.  It  is  built  on  a 
commanding  height,  the  old  Mountain  of  the  Jews,  just  out- 


MARIA  SANTISIMA 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  211 

side  Barcelona,  and  has  again  and  again  suffered  bombardment 
and  storm.  But  in  this  latest  assault  on  Montjuich  the 
weapons  are  words  that  burn  and  pens  keener  than  swords. 
It  was  on  the  seventh  of  June,  1896,  that  the  famous  bomb 
was  exploded  in  Barcelona.  It  was  taken  for  an  Anarchist 
outrage,  and  over  two  hundred  men,  including  teachers,  writ- 
ers, and  labor  leaders,  were  arrested  on  suspicion.  Nearly 
two  months  passed,  and,  despite  the  offer  of  tempting  rewards, 
no  trace  of  the  culprits  had  been  found.  In  the  Fortress  of 
Montjuich  the  guards  deputed  to  watch  the  prisoners,  acting 
more  or  less  under  superior  authority,  which  itself  may  have 
been  influenced  by  Jesuit  suggestion,  began  on  the  fourth  of 
August  to  inflict  tortures  upon  the  accused  for  the  purpose  of 
extracting  evidence.  The  trials  were  by  military  procedure, 
power  sat  in  the  seat  of  justice,  and  innocent  men,  it  is  be- 
lieved, were  condemned  on  the  strength  of  those  forced  con- 
fessions —  mere  assents,  wrung  from  them  by  bodily  agony, 
to  whatever  their  guards  might  dictate.  But  many  persisted 
in  denial,  and  in  course  of  time  a  number  were  released, 
maimed,  in  certain  cases,  for  life.  Others  were  shot,  and  a> 
score  still  lay  in  prison.  The  fortress  dungeons  are  deep  and 
dark,  but  little  by  little  the  cries  and  groans  of  the  "martyrs 
of  Montjuich  "  penetrated  the  dull  stone  and  sounded  through- 
out Spain. 

On  the  fourteenth  of  May,  last  year,  the  Vida  Nueva,  this 
bold  young  periodical  in  the  van  of  the  Liberal  cause,  brought 
out  an  illustrated  number  devoted  to  "  The  Torments  of  Mont- 
juich." Other  periodicals  sprang  to  its  support  and  kept  the 
Government  busy  with  denunciations,  while  they  vehemently 
called  for  a  revision  of  the  judicial  process,  with  the  hope  of 


212  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

releasing  the  men  still  under  sentence  and  clearing  the  names 
of  those  who  had  perished.  Mass  meetings  to  urge  such 
revision,  which  could  be  accorded  only  by  vote  of  the  Cortes, 
were  held  in  Barcelona,  Saragossa,  Valencia,  Santander,  and 
other  principal  cities,  all  demanding  revision  in  the  sacred 
names  of  patriotism,  humanity,  and  justice. 

Our  Madrid  mass  meeting  was  of  chief  consequence  in 
impressing  the  Government  with  the  weight  of  popular 
opinion.  The  swaying  multitude  was  called  to  order  at 
quarter  of  ten  by  Senor  Canalejas,  who  introduced  a  notable 
array  of  speakers.  There  were  representatives  of  labor,  of 
republicanism,  of  the  press,  a  Catalan  charged  with  a  greeting 
from  Barcelona,  the  champion  of  Spanish  Socialism,  Pablo 
Iglesias  by  name,  and  great  men  of  the  nation,  Azcarate, 
Moret,  and  Salmeron.  Spanish  eloquence  at  its  best  thrills 
the  blood  to  wine,  and  the  swift  succession  of  orators,  four- 
teen all  told,  played  on  the  vast  audience  like  master  artists 
on  a  murmurous  organ.  Yet  there  was  no  disorder.  A  gen- 
erous and  grateful  hearing  was  accorded  the  Count  of  Las 
*  Almenas,  who  frankly  declared  himself  a  conservative  in  poli- 
tics and  an  apostolic  Roman  Catholic  in  religion,  but  in  the 
name  of  both  these  creeds  a  lover  of  justice  and  humanity. 
Since  for  these  he  ever  held  himself  ready  to  do  battle  in  the 
Cortes,  he  gave  the  meeting  his  pledge  that  he  would  support 
Azcarate  in  the  motion  for  revision. 

But  the  wrath  and  grief  of  the  audience  could  hardly  be 
controlled  when  one  of  the  released  prisoners  took  the  plat- 
form to  recount  the  horrors  of  Montjuich.  He  told  of 
dungeons  with  earth  floor  and  one  grated  window,  of  savage 
guards  determined  to  gain  the  crosses  and  pensions  promised 


A  Study  in  Contrasts  213 

to  those  who  should  extract  evidence.  He  told  how  the  help- 
less captives,  weakened  by  confinement,  were  tortured  with 
cords,  whips,  sleeplessness,  hunger,  and  thirst.  Bound  as  they 
were,  water  was  held  before  their  parched  mouths,  with  the 
sinister  words,  "  Confess  what  we  bid  you,  and  you  shall 
drink."  When  the  famished  men  begged  for  food,  they  were 
answered  with  the  lash,  or,  more  fiendishly,  with  shreds  of 
salt  codfish,  which  increased  their  thirst  a  hundred  fold.  One 
man  in  his  desperation  sprang  to  the  lamp  and  quaffed  the 
dirty  oil.  They  licked  the  moisture  from  their  dungeon  walls. 
They  thrust  white  tongues  through  the  grating  to  catch  the 
drops  of  rain.  Soon  the  guards  proceeded  to  more  violent 
torments,  wrenching,  burning,  and  probing  the  quivering  flesh 
with  a  devilish  ingenuity  of  torture,  making  a  derisive  sport 
of  their  atrocious  work.  One  of  the  victims  went  mad  while 
undergoing  torture  by  compression  of  the  head.  Others,  on 
hearing  the  coming  steps  of  the  guards,  strove  to  escape  their 
cruel  hands  by  suicide.  One  drank  a  bowl  of  disinfectant 
found  in  his  cell,  one  beat  his  forehead  against  the  wall,  one 
strove  to  drive  a  rusted  nail  into  his  heart. 

It  was  a  frightful  tale  to  hear.  I  looked  across  the  hall  to 
where  a  Spanish  flag  was  hung.  Yellow  wax  is  funeral  wax, 
and  Alarcon,  who  sees  in  yellow  a  symbol  of  death  and  of 
decay,  laments  that  it  is  the  color  of  half  the  Spanish  banner. 
u  Ay  de  la  bandera  espanola  !  "  But  surely  there  is  hope  for 
Spain,  while  she  has  sons  who,  in  grasp  of  a  military  tyranny 
which  has  rendered  such  crimes  possible,  contend  in  open 
field  for  the  overthrow  of  the  "  black  Spain  "  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion, and  still  bear  heart  of  hope  for  a  white,  regenerated  Spain, 
where  religion  shall  include  the  love  of  man. 


XV 

THE    PATRON    SAINT    OF    MADRID 

"Labre,  cultive,  cogi 
Con  piedad,  con  fe,  con  celo, 
Tierras,  virtudes  y  cielo." 

SPAIN  seems  actually  skied  over  with  the  wings  of 
guardian  angels.  The  traditional  tutelar  of  the  nation, 
Santiago,  counts  for  less,  especially  in  the  south  and 
centre  of  the  Peninsula,  than  might  be  expected,  and  was 
long  since  officially  superseded  by  the  Virgin  ;  but  cities,  ham- 
lets, families,  individuals,  all  have  their  protecting  saints.  Some 
are  martyrs,  some  bishops,  some  apostles,  while  Cordova 
rests  secure  beneath  the  shining  plumes  of  the  angel  Raphael. 
Towns  and  townlets  hold  festivals  for  their  celestial  patrons, 
honoring  them  with  fairs,  horse-races,  processions,  dances, 
and  whatsoever  else  may  be  appropriate  to  the  season  and 
characteristic  of  the  locality,  as  ball  games,  bull-fights,  or  even 
a  miracle  play.  Only  Seville,  mirth-loving  Seville,  who 
makes  holiday  on  the  slightest  provocation,  can  never  invite 
her  two  beautiful  guardians,  Santa  Justa  and  Santa  Rufina, 
to  a  jubilee.  These  holy  maidens  used  to  keep  a  pottery 
booth  in  Triana,  now  the  gypsy  quarter  of  the  city,  where, 
refusing  to  worship  the  Roman  Venus,  they  won  the  crown 

214 


A  SPANISH  MONK 


The   Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  215 

of  martyrdom.  But  their  industrious  habits  cling  to  them 
still,  and,  by  night  and  by  day,  while  the  centuries  pass,  they 
uphold  the  Giralda.  An  anointed  vision,  like  Murillo's, 
may  see  their  graceful  forms  hovering  in  mid-air  on  either 
side  of  the  famous  tower,  which  their  strong  brown  arms  hold 
firm  even  in  tempests.  If  the  ladies  should  let  go,  the 
Giralda  would  fall,  and  so  the  Sevillians  are  driven  to  the 
ungallant  course  of  ignoring  these  really  useful  patrons  and 
gadding  off  to  adjacent  towns  whose  saints  are  at  leisure  to  be 
entertained. 

By  the  eternal  contradiction  that  prevails  in  all  things  Span- 
ish, it  has  come  to  pass  that  Madrid,  the  elegant  capital  and 
royal  residence,  is  under  the  guardianship  of  a  peasant  saint. 
Here,  in  the  eleventh  century,  Isidro  was  born,  say  the  priests, 
of  poor  but  Catholic  parents.  If  not  precisely  a  hewer  of 
wood  and  a  drawer  of  water,  he  was  next  door  to  that  humble 
estate,  being  a  digger  of  wells  and  cellars.  He  dug  with  such 
piety  that  God  aided  him  by  miracles,  causing  troublesome 
rocks  to  melt  like  wax  at  the  touch  of  his  spade,  and  springs 
of  healing  water  to  leap  in  the  pits  of  his  fashioning.  He 
was  a  tiller  of  the  ground,  besides,  a  hireling  farm  servant, 
whose  agricultural  methods,  though  seemingly  irregular,  caused 
his  master's  granaries  to  overflow.  As  he  went  to  the  fields 
in  the  fresh  spring  mornings,  the  young  Isidro  would  scatter 
handfuls  of  seed  for  the  birds,  saying,  "  Eat,  God's  little 
birds,  for  when  our  Lord  looks  forth  in  dawn,  He  looks  upon 
us  all."  And  as  he  dropped  the  wheat  and  barley  in  the  fur- 
rows, ever  he  murmured,  "  This  for  God,  and  this  for  us ; 
this  for  the  birds,  and  this  for  the  ants."  "  For  the  ants, 
too  ?  "  mockingly  asked  the  rustics  who  planted  beside  him, 


2i6  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

but  Isidro  steadfastly  replied,  "  For  the  ants,  too,  since  they 
are  God's  ants,  and  His  royal  bounty  is  for  all  His  house- 
hold." No  wonder  that  the  Almighty  had  Isidro's  fields  in 
special  charge,  sending  sun  and  rain  in  due  season  that  the 
harvest  might  suffice  for  every  claimant.  Such  divine  care 
was  the  more  necessary,  because  this  dreamy  plough-boy  spent 
most  of  his  time  in  the  churches,  or  on  his  knees  in  the 
shadow  of  the  fruit  trees,  until  his  profane  companions  called 
him  Lazybones. 

Isidro  was  no  effective  patron  of  Madrid  as  yet,  but  ran 
away  from  the  Moors,  when  they  invaded  the  city,  finding 
farm  service  in  a  neighboring  village.  Here  he  married  a 
maiden  whose  lovely  soul,  according  to  Lope  de  Vega,  shone 
through  her  guileless  face  like  a  painting  through  its  glass. 
She  was  no  less  devout  than  her  husband,  and  went  every 
evening  to  trim  the  altar  in  a  lonely  shrine  of  the  Virgin. 
There  was  a  stream  to  be  crossed  on  the  way,  and  in  times 
of  freshet  Our  Lady  would  appear  in  person  and  lead  her  by 
the  hand  over  the  tops  of  the  waves.  Such  dainty  stepping 
as  it  must  have  been  !  And  once,  when  Isidro  accompanied 
his  wife,  they  both  crossed  in  a  boat  suddenly  improvised 
from  her  mantilla,  which  was  not  a  thread  the  worse  for  the 
experience. 

The  miracle-working  power  that  developed  in  San  Isidro 
was  first  exercised,  as  became  a  farmer,  on  suffering  beasts 
and  bad  weather.  His  early  influence  over  water  grew  more 
and  more  pronounced,  rain  refreshing  the  thirsty  fields  at  his 
bidding,  and  medicinal  fountains  gushing  from  rocks  at  the 
stroke  of  his  hoe.  And  when,  one  sunshiny  morning,  his 
wife  let  their  baby  boy  slip  from  her  arms  into  the  depths  of 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  217 

the  well  and  ran  in  distress  to  her  husband,  the  saint,  who  for 
once  was  working  on  the  farm,  did  not  scold  her,  as  the 
priestly  authors  seem  to  think  would  have  been  the  natural 
course,  but  calmly  said,  "  My  sister,  what  is  there  to  cry 
about  ?  "  And  when,  after  a  season  of  prayer,  these  exem- 
plary parents  proceeded  to  the  well,  its  waters  had  risen  to 
the  brink,  lifting  the  little  John,  as  on  a  silver-tissue  cushion, 
safe  to  their  embrace.  Isidro  still  retained  his  youthful  pecu- 
liarities as  a  laborer,  often  praying  all  day  long  in  the  churches, 
while  his  yoke  of  oxen  did  the  ploughing  just  as  well  without 
him.  On  one  occasion,  when  he  arrived  too  late  for  mass, 
the  gates  of  heaven  opened  to  his  vision,  as  he  knelt  before 
the  closed  church  door,  and  he  was  permitted  to  witness  a 
celestial  mass,  where  Christ  was  both  priest  and  wafer,  with 
choirs  of  angels  chanting  the  holy  service.  Even  his  charities 
cost  him  little,  for  when  the  olla  of  vegetables  and  fish,  that 
his  wife  made  every  Saturday  for  the  poor,  had  all  been  eaten, 
a  word  from  Isidro  was  enough  to  replenish  the  pot.  If  he 
emptied  his  sack  of  corn  on  the  snow  for  a  flock  of  hungry 
pigeons,  the  sack  was  full  when  he  reached  the  mill ; 
and  when  he  threshed  his  master's  wheat  a  second  and  a 
third  time  for  the  beggars,  the  very  chaff  turned  into  golden 
grain. 

His  best  quality,  which  almost  makes  his  cult  desirable  in 
Spain,  continued  to  be  his  love  for  animals,  especially  for 
birds.  These  sang  their  sweetest  songs  as  he  passed  by,  and 
often  flew  down  from  the  poplar  branches  to  brush  their  little 
wings  against  his  blouse.  And  he,  who  had  raised  his 
master's  daughter  from  the  dead,  did  not  disdain  to  work 
miracles  of  healing  and  of  life  on  maltreated  horses.  Madrid 


2i 8  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

would  do  well  to  give  her  guardian  saint  a  season  ticket  to 
the  bull-ring.  Even  the  despised  and  cudgelled  ass  had  a 
share  in  his  protection.  A  sacrilegious  wolf  that  thought  to 
make  a  meal  of  Isidro's  donkey,  left  to  graze  outside  a  church 
where  the  saint  had  gone  to  pray,  was  struck  dead  —  perhaps 
by  the  donkey's  heels.  This  kindly  rustic,  who  had  separated 
from  his  wife  for  greater  sanctity,  died  on  St.  Andrew's  Day 
and  was  buried  in  the  cemetery  of  St.  Andrew's  Church  in 
Madrid.  Such  sepulture  was  not  to  his  liking,  and  twice  his 
ghost  appeared  to  ask  that  the  body  might  be  removed  to  the 
church,  as  was  presently  done,  all  the  bells  of  St.  Andrew's 
ringing  of  their  own  accord  to  give  it  welcome.  The  tomb 
immediately  began  to  work  miracles,  and  Isidro  became  such 
a  favorite  with  the  people  that  when,  in  1212,  a  shepherd 
guided  Alfonso  VIII,  lost  with  his  vanguard  in  the  wild 
passes  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  to  the  great  battle  of  Las  Navas 
de  Tolosa,  where  the  armies  of  the  Holy  Cross  broke  forever 
the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in  Central  Spain,  nothing  would 
do  but  the  story  that  this  shepherd  was  Isidro  himself. 
Above  the  tomb  of  the  saint  a  chapel  was  erected,  perhaps 
by  Alfonso,  perhaps  by  Isabel  la  Catolica.  There  seems  to 
be  a  conflict  of  authorities  here,  but  all  testimonies  agree  that 
the  angels  used  to  come  down  and  sing  in  the  chapel  Saturday 
afternoons. 

Madrid  formally  accepted  Isidro  as  patron  in  the  summer 
of  1232,  when  the  labors  of  the  husbandmen,  on  the  point  of 
perishing  from  drought,  were  saved  by  the  body  of  the  Holy 
Peasant,  which,  borne  in  priestly  procession,  called  down 
floods  of  rain  ;  but  it  was  not  until  the  times  of  Philip  III, 
some  four  centuries  later,  that  the  actual  canonization  of 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  219 

Isidro  was  granted  by  Rome.  On  May  15,  1620,  the  Plaza 
Mayor,  that  handsome  square  which  has  been  the  theatre  of 
so  many  tournaments,  executions,  and  autos  de  fe,  the  scene, 
two  years  later,  of  the  beatification  of  Loyola,  was  inaugurated 
by  a  splendid  festival  in  honor  of  San  Isidro.  From  that  day 
to  this  his  worship  has  not  waned.  The  miracle-working 
bones,  which  were  carried  to  the  bitter  death-bed  of  Philip 
III,  and  comforted  the  passing  of  the  great  and  generous 
spirit  of  Charles  III,  are  still  held  to  be  more  potent  than 
physicians.  Churches,  oratories,  and  chapels  have  been  built 
to  him  all  over  the  Peninsula,  the  Franciscan  Friars  founded 
a  convent  of  San  Isidro  in  Rome,  and  his  name  is  a  part  of 
our  new  geography  lesson  in  the  Antilles  and  the  Philippines. 
Only  four  years  ago  his  urn  was  borne  in  penitential  proces- 
sion through  Madrid,  with  double  supplications  for  rain  on 
the  parched  country,  and  for  a  swift  and  happy  ending  of  the 
Cuban  war.  All  priestly,  military,  civic,  and  governmental 
pomp  went  to  make  up  that  stately  escort,  the  ladies  of 
Madrid  showering  the  train  as  it  passed  beneath  their  bal- 
conies with  flowers,  poems,  and  confetti.  The  saint  did 
what  he  could.  The  procession  had  been  so  skilfully  timed 
that  the  rains  began  that  very  night,  but  the  Cuban  war  was 
a  matter  out  of  his  province.  His  dealings  had  always  been 
with  water,  not  with  blood. 

There  is  significance  in  this  devotion  of  proud  Castile  to 
San  Isidro.  Spain  is  essentially  as  democratic  as  America. 
Her  proverbs  tell  the  story  :  "  Many  a  man  gets  to  heaven  in 
tow  breeches ; "  "  Do  what  your  master  bids  you,  and  sit 
down  with  him  at  table  ; "  "  Nobody  is  born  learned,  and 
even  bishops  are  made  of  men  ; "  "  Since  I  am  a  man  I  may 


22O  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

come  to  be  Pope ;  "  "  The  corpse  of  the  Pope  takes  no  more 
ground  than  that  of  the  sacristan ;  "  "  Every  man  is  the  son 
of  his  own  works." 

««  Said  the  leaf  to  the  flower  :   '  O  fie  ! 

You  put  on  airs  indeed  ! 
But  we  sprang,  both  you  and  I, 

From  the  selfsame  little  brown  seed.'  ' 

Pedler,  porter,  beggar  treat  you  as  social  equals  and  expect 
a  full  return  of  courtesy.  It  is  told  in  Madrid  how  a  great 
diplomatic  .personage  not  long  ago  was  eating  his  picnic 
luncheon  in  a  hired  carriage.  The  driver,  lunching  also, 
leaned  back  from  his  seat,  clinked  glasses,  and  drank  the 
gentleman's  health.  The  dignitary  glared  with  astonishment 
and  wrath.  u  Man  !  I  am  the  Imperial  Ambassador  of 
Nation  So-and-So."  "  What  of  it  ?  "  returned  the  driver, 
taking  another  bite  of  his  peppery  Spanish  sausage ;  "  I  am 
the  Head  Hostler  of  Stables  Such-and-Such." 

Again  and  again,  in  recent  times  as  in  ancient,  have  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  Spanish  nation  asserted  their  dignity  of 
manhood.  An  edict  of  Charles  III,  forbidding  the  Madrilenos 
to  muffle  themselves  in  their  beloved  long  cloaks  and  hide 
their  faces  under  their  big  slouch  hats,  raised  a  furious  riot  in 
the  capital.  Should  a  king  dictate  the  fashion  of  a  man's 
garments  ?  And  when  the  stupid  weakness  of  Charles  IV 
and  the  baseness  of  his  son  Fernando  had  delivered  Spain  over 
to  Napoleon,  when  French  armies  held  her  fortresses,  and 
Murat,  with  twenty-five  thousand  troops,  ruled  Madrid  by 
logic  of  steel  and  iron,  it  was  the  Spanish  people  who,  from 
Asturias  to  Andalusia,  sprang  to  the  defence  of  a  country 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  221 

abandoned  by  princes,  councils,  and  grandees.  The  Spanish 
people,  not  the  Spanish  nobles,  preserved  the  independence  of 
the  nation  and  actually  broke  the  career  of  the  Corsican  con- 
queror. The  Italian  king,  Amadeo,  so  much  better  than  his 
fortunes,  was  welcomed  at  Valencia  in  1871  with  simple 
verses,  spoken  by  a  child,  that  breathe  even  from  their  opening 
stanza  this  native  spirit  of  democracy  :  — 

"  The  High  Lord  of  the  Heavens 

Created  men  one  day, 
All  mortal  and  all  equal, 

All  shapen  out  of  clay  ; 
For  God  recked  not  of  nations, 

Of  white  and  black  and  brown, 
But  on  His  human  children 

Impartially  looked  down." 

It  is  not  then  so  strange  as  it  appears  at  first  hearing  that 
a  Piers  Plowman  should  be  patron  of  Madrid. 

From  Alfonso  VIII  to  Alfonso  XIII,  a  matter  of  some 
seven  centuries,  Isidro  has  been  in  high  repute  with  royalty. 
The  "  Catholic  Kings "  made  him  rich  gifts ;  Philip  II, 
bigot  of  bigots,  cherished  an  especial  veneration  for  the 
ghostly  protector  who  had  brought  his  delicate  childhood 
safely  through  smallpox  and  epileptic  seizures ;  the  passion- 
wasted  Philip  IV  did  him  public  homage ;  Charles  the 
Bewitched  made  a  solemn  progress  to  his  shrine  to  thank  him 
for  recovery  from  illness  ;  even  the  bright  young  Bourbon, 
Philip  V,  had  scarcely  arrived  in  Madrid  before  he  hastened 
to  worship  the  efficacious  body  of  San  Isidro.  The  urn  has 
been  opened  at  intervals  to  give  their  successive  Majesties  of 


222  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Spain  the  grewsome  joy  of  gazing  on  the  bones,  and  it  has 
been  the  peculiar  privilege  of  Spanish  queens,  on  such  occa- 
sions, to  renew  the  costly  cerements.  The  devotion  of  the 
present  regent  to  these  relics  keeps  pace  with  that  of  her 
predecessors. 

Where  royalty  leads,  aristocracy  is  swift  to  follow,  and 
Isidro  has  a  gorgeous  wardrobe  of  embroidered  standards, 
palls,  canopies,  burial  cloths,  and  everything  that  a  skeleton 
could  require,  but  "  for  a'  that  and  a'  that "  the  laboring 
people  of  Castile  never  forget  that  the  Canonized  Farmer 
especially  belongs  to  them.  His  fortnight-long  fiesta  is  the 
May  outing  of  the  rustic  population  all  about  Madrid. 

We  will  start  on  this  pilgrimage  from  the  Puerto  del  Sol, 
because  everything  in  Madrid  starts  from  the  Puerto  del  Sol. 
From  this  great  open  parallelogram  in  the  centre  of  the  city, 
surrounded  by  lofty  hotels  and  Government  buildings, 
bordered  with  shops  and  cafes,  brightened  with  fountains, 
thronged  with  trams,  carriages,  people,  always  humming  with 
voices,  always  surging  with  movement,  run  ten  of  the  princi- 
pal streets  of  the  capital.  The  Cicala,  most  fashionable  of 
promenades,  and  San  Jerbnimo,  beloved  of  wealthy  shoppers, 
conduct  to  the  noble  reaches  of  parks  and  paseos  in  the  east ; 
the  handsome  Arenal  and  historic  Calle  Mayor  lead  west  to 
the  royal  palace,  with  its  extensive  gardens  known  as  the 
Campo  del  Moro ;  Montera,  with  two  less  elegant  avenues, 
points  to  the  north,  where  one  may  find  the  university,  the 
Protestant  churches,  and  the  tragic  site  of  the  £htemadero ;  and 
three  corresponding  streets  open  the  way  to  the  south,  with 
its  factories,  hospitals,  old  churches,  and  world-famed  Rastro, 
or  rag  fair. 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  223 

But  during  the  early  days  of  the  Romeria,  which  begins  on 
May  15,  all  the  throbbing  tide  of  life  pours  toward  the 
southwest,  for  the  goal  of  the  pilgrimage,  the  Hermitage  of 
San  Isidro,  built  over  one  of  his  miraculous  wells  by  the 
empress  of  Charles  I,  in  gratitude  for  a  cure  experienced  by 
her  august  husband  after  drinking  of  the  waters,  stands  on  the 
farther  bank  of  the  Manzanares.  The  trams,  literally  heaped 
with  clinging  humanity,  pass  out  by  the  Calle  Mayor  and 
cross  the  Plaza  Mayor.  The  innumerable  'buses  and  cabs 
make  a  shorter  cut,  but  all  varieties  of  vehicle  are  soon 
wedged  together  in  the  broad  thoroughfare  of  Toledo.  Here 
we  pass  the  big  granite  church  of  San  Isidro  el  Real,  once  in 
possession  of  the  Jesuits,  but  on  their  expulsion  from  Spain, 
in  1767,  consecrated  to  the  Santo  Labrador.  His  body  was 
borne  thither,  with  all  solemn  ceremonial,  from  the  chapel  in 
St.  Andrew's ;  and  his  poor  wife,  who  had  also  been  sainted, 
by  a  courteous  Spanish  afterthought,  under  the  attractive  title 
of  Maria  de  la  Cabeza,  Mary  of  the  Head,  was  allowed  to  lay 
her  celebrated  skull  beneath  the  same  roof,  —  a  greater  liberty 
than  he  had  permitted  her  during  the  latter  half  of  their  earthly 
lives.  The  Madrid  Cathedral,  hard  by  the  royal  palace,  is 
still  in  slow  process  of  building,  the  work  being  hampered  and 
delayed  for  lack  of  funds,  although  her  Majesty  sets  a  devout 
example  by  contributing  $300  a  month.  Meanwhile,  San 
Isidro  el  Real  serves  as  the  cathedral  church  of  the  diocese. 

This  Calle  de  Toledo,  where  Isidro  dug  several  of  his  medici- 
nal wells,  is  always  gay  with  arcades  and  booths  and  drapers' 
shops  ;  but  now,  during  the  Romeria,  it  is  a  veritable  curbstone 
market,  where  oranges,  sashes,  brooms,  mantles,  picture  frames, 
saucepans,  fiddles,  mantillas,  china,  jackets,  umbrellas,  fans, 


224  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

dolls,  bird-cages,  paintings  of  saints,  and  photographs  of  ballet 
dancers  are  all  cried  and  exhibited,  hawked  and  held  under 
nose,  in  one  continuous  tumult. 

As  we  approach  the  bare  mass  of  masonry  known  as  the 
Gate  of  Toledo,  we  cast,  for  all  our  festival  mood,  a  clouded 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  barbarous  slaughter-houses  of 
Madrid.  Here  the  stronger  beasts  are  blinded  by  the  thrust 
of  darts,  and  also  hamstrung,  to  render  them  helpless  under 
the  deliberate  butchery  of  their  tormentors,  who  often  amuse 
themselves  by  a  little  bull-fight  practice  with  the  agonized 
creatures  before  striking  the  final  blow  —  a  place  of  such  atro- 
cious cruelties  that  even  the  seasoned  nerves  of  an  Austrian 
surgeon  recently  visiting  it  gave  way,  and  he  fainted  as  he 
looked.  There  is  work  for  San  Isidro  here. 

The  jam  of  equipages  on  the  Bridge  of  Toledo  gives  us 
abundant  time  to  observe  the  statue  of  the  Holy  Peasant,  in  a 
stone  niche,  lifting  his  baby  from  the  well,  and  the  companion 
statue  of  Mary  of  the  Skull.  And  there  is  the  Manzanares 
to  look  at,  that  sandy  channel  along  which  dribble  a  few 
threads  of  water  —  threads  that  the  washerwomen  of  Madrid 
seek  after  like  veins  of  silver.  Small  bovs  are  wading  from 
one  bank  to  the  other,  hardly  troubling  themselves  to  roll  up 
their  trousers.  It  is  said  that  Philip  IV,  surveying  his  pom- 
pous bridge  across  the  Manzanares,  was  wickedly  advised  by 
one  of  his  courtiers  to  sell  the  bridge  or  else  buy  a  river.  It 
is  a  curious  bit  of  irony  to  hold  the  festival  of  the  Water 
Saint  beside  a  river  bed  almost  as  dry  as  his  bones. 

But  the  crowd  has  now  become  so  mad  and  merry  that  it 
distracts  attention  alike  from  architecture  and  physical  geog- 
raphy. Will  all  the  dexterity  of  foot-police  and  mounted 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  225 

guards  ever  succeed  in  disentangling  this  snarl  of  equipages  ? 
Who  cares  ?  Everybody  is  laughing.  Everybody,  too,  is 
helping,  so  far  as  lungs  can  help.  A  daring  Aragonese,  with 
a  blue  and  white  checked  handkerchief  knotted  about  his 
head  and  a  scarlet  blanket  over  his  shoulders,  tries  to  dash 
across  the  bridge  and  rejoin  his  screaming  children.  He 
stumbles  before  a  jovial  omnibus,  whose  four  horses,  adorned 
with  beribboned  straw  hats,  gaze  coyly  out  from  under  the 
torn  brims  like  so  many  metamorphosed  Maud  Mullers.  A 
distant  guard  roars  a  warning.  The  crowd  bellows  in  sym- 
pathy. A  liveried  coachman  rears  his  spirited  pair  of  bays. 
A  cock-hatted  gypsy,  with  half  his  tribe  packed  into  his  cart, 
tries  to  follow  suit,  and  tugs  savagely  at  the  stubborn  mouths 
of  mules  whose  heads  are  liberally  festooned  with  red  and 
green  tassels.  In  front  of  these  safely  passes  the  Aragonese, 
only  to  bring  up  against  the  great  wheel  of  a  picnic  wagon, 
whose  occupants,  mostly  senoritas  in  the  sunrise  Philippine 
shawls,  thrust  out  their  pretty  heads,  all  crowned  with  flowers 
instead  of  hats,  and  rain  down  saucy  salutations.  The  crowd 
chimes  in  with  euvery  variety  of  voluble  impudence.  He  catches 
at  the  long  gold  fringe  of  the  nearest  shawl,  saves  himself  from 
falling  at  the  price  of  a  shriek  of  wrath  from  the  senorita, 
plunges  desperately  on,  is  struck  by  a  cab  horse,  the  poor 
beast  being  half  blinded  by  the  tickling  plumes  that  droop 
over  eyes  and  nose,  and  amid  volleys  of  ridicule  and  encour- 
agement reels  to  the  shelter  of  the  sidewalk.  But  a  very 
precarious  shelter  it  is,  so  narrow  that  the  lads  are  positively 
obliged  to  fling  their  arms  about  the  lasses  to  hold  the  flutter- 
ing skirts  back  from  peril  of  wheels  and  hoofs.  Everywhere 
what  audacity,  what  fun,  what  color,  and  what  noise  !  Troops 
Q 


226  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

on  troops  of  foot  travellers,  usually  in  family  groups,  and  often 
stained  with  the  dust  of  an  all-day  tramp  !  The  wives  gen- 
erally carry  the  hampers,  and  the  husbands  sometimes  shoulder 
the  babies.  Squads  of  young  fellows  frolic  along,  each  with 
his  supply  of  provisions  tied  up  in  a  gaudy  handkerchief. 
The  closer  the  nudging  the  better  they  like  it ;  a  slap  from  a 
girlish  hand  is  almost  as  good  as  a  kiss.  Isidro  knew  all 
about  it  in  his  day.  But  this  clownish  jollity  grows  rougher 
and  rougher,  and  the  crack  and  sting  from  a  coachman's  whip 
tempt  a  reply  with  the  pilgrim's  staff.  The  guards,  hoarse 
and  purple,  wipe  their  dripping  brows.  It  is  early  afternoon 
yet,  too,  and  the  larking  and  license  are  as  nothing  to  what 
may  be  expected  before  midnight. 

It  is  a  little  better  when,  at  last,  the  bridge  is  left  behind. 
Turning  to  the  northwest,  the  dusty  road  runs  on  beside  the 
river  and  beneath  the  bluffs  lined  with  rowdyish  folk,  who 
shout  down  greetings  to  their  acquaintances  and  compliments 
to  the  ladies,  toward  the  ermita.  A  certain  Juan  de  Vargas, 
riding  over  this  same  route  one  day,  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
uplands  to  see  how  his  farm-hand,  Isidro,  was*getting  on  with 
the  ploughing.  Blessed  Isidro  !  Before  and  after  went  two 
stalwart  young  angels,  still  in  shining  white,  each  driving  a 
celestial  yoke  of  oxen. 

Times  have  changed.  The  sight  that  greets  our  eyes  is 
emphatically  human  —  a  great  country  fair,  a  pandemonium 
of  rude,  good-natured  revelry.  The  beggars  who  have  been 
chasing  the  carriage,  the  cripples  outstripping  the  rest,  thrust 
withered  arms,  ulcerous  legs,  and  all  manner  of  profitable  de- 
formities into  our  very  faces  as  we  alight,  even  clutching  at  the 
coins  with  which  we  pay  the  coachman.  We  make  our  way, 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  227 

as  best  we  can  in  the  rough  press,  between  two  rows  of  booths 
toward  the  church.  There  is  the  usual  Spanish  variety  of 
penny  toys  on  sale  —  balls,  baskets,  whips,  kites,  jumping- 
jacks,  balloons,  and  every  other  conceivable  trifle  admitting 
of  the  colors  red  and  yellow.  But  the  great  traffic  is  in  those 
articles  especially  consecrate  to  San  Isidro  —  frosted  cakes, 
probably  made  after  the  recipe  of  Maria  de  la  Cabeza,  clay 
vessels  of  every  shape  and  size  for  carrying  away  the  healing 
waters,  and,  first  and  foremost,  pitas,  or  whistles.  The  priests 
would  have  us  believe  that  San  Isidro  was  forever  droning 
psalms,  but  ploughmen  know  a  ploughman's  music,  and  the 
sacred  whistles  lead  the  sales  in  the  Romeria.  It  is  impiety 
not  to  purchase  at  least  one  of  these,  and  the  more  devout 
you  are,  the  more  pitas  will  you  buy.  The  Infanta  Isabel, 
aunt  of  his  Little  Majesty,  fills  her  emblazoned  coach  every 
year  with  these  shrill  pipes  in  all  their  variety  of  queer  dis- 
guises —  fans,  birds,  puffing  grotesques,  and,  above  all,  paper 
flowers.  He  is  no  lover  worth  the  having  who  does  not  bring 
his  sweetheart  a  San  Isidro  rose  with  a  pito  for  a  stem.  The 
ear-torture  of  an  immense  fair-ground  delighting  in  an  in- 
finity of  whistles  may  be  left  to  the  sympathetic  imagination. 
We  cling  to  the  memory  of  Burns,  and  bear  for  his  bonny 
sake  what  we  could  hardly  endure  for  any  such  sham  laborer 
as  Isidro. 

The  hearing  is  not  the  only  sense  to  do  penance  in  this 
pilgrimage.  The  Water  Saint  has  never  thought  to  work 
a  miracle  of  cleanliness  upon  his  peasant  votaries,  and  the 
smell  that  bursts  out  upon  us  from  the  opening  doors  of  the 
church  might  put  us  to  flight,  were  flight  still  possible.  But, 
caught  in  the  human  current,  we  are  swept  on  into  the  gilded, 


228  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

candle-lighted,  foul-aired  oratory,  with  its  effigies  of  Santo 
Labrador  and  Santa  Labradora.  All  day  long  the  imperious 
ringing  of  the  bell  at  the  shortest  of  intervals  has  been  calling 
one  company  of  the  faithful  after  another  up  the  bare  brown 
hill  to  that  un ventilated  temple.  When  there  is  no  squeezing 
room  left  for  even  a  dwarf  from  the  pygmy  show,  the  doors 
are  closed,  the  bell  is  silenced,  and  the  rustics  are  marshalled 
in  rapid  procession  before  the  altar,  where  they  pay  a  penny 
each,  receive  a  cheap  print  of  San  Isidro,  and  kiss  the  mysteri- 
ous, glass-cased  relic  which  a  businesslike  young  ecclesiatic 
touches  hastily  to  their  lips.  The  frank  sound  of  the  kissing 
within  is  accompanied  by  the  tooting  of  pitos  without.  We 
stand  at  one  side,  looking  at  the  priests  and  wondering  how 
their  consciences  are  put  together,  but  half  ashamed  to  watch 
with  heretic  eyes  the  tears  of  joy,  the  fervors  of  prayer,  the 
ecstasies  of  faith,  that  are  to  be  seen  in  many  of  these  simple, 
passionate  faces  filing  by.  Here  comes  a  little  girl  treading 
as  if  on  air  and  clasping  her  picture  of  the  saint  to  her  lips, 
brows,  and  heart  with  such  abandon  of  delighted  adoration 
as  one  must  go  to  Spain  to  see. 

Released  from  the  Hermitage,  we  fill  our  lungs  with  sweeter 
breath,  give  skirts  a  vigorous  shake  in  the  vain  hope  that  we 
may  not  carry  away  too  many  deserters  from  the  insect  retinue 
of  our  recent  associates,  and  turn  down  toward  the  river. 
Our  short  cut  leads  us  among  heaps  and  heaps  of  bales  packed 
with  the  graceful  clay  jars.  How  many  an  anxious  mother 
will  trudge  her  weary  miles  across  this  dry  Castilian  steppe, 
bearing  with  all  her  other  burdens  a  botija  of  the  healing  water 
to  some  little  sufferer  at  home  !  Wonderful  water,  warranted 
to  make  whole  the  lame,  the  blind,  the  deaf,  the  dumb,  and 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  229 

•» 

9 

put  to  rout  all  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to,  especially  fevers,  tumors, 
erysipelas,  paralysis,  and  consumption  !  It  is  as  potent  to-day 
as  when  it  first  gushed  from  the  earth  at  the  bidding  of  the 
young  Isidro,  for  did  it  not  work  a  notable  cure,  as  late 
as  1884,  on  the  Infanta  Dona  Paz  de  Bourbon,  sister  of 
Alphonso  XII  ? 

We  linger  a  few  minutes  at  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  looking 
down  upon  the  animated  scene  below,  from  which  rises  the 
hum  as  of  an  exaggerated  beehive.  The  long  green  stretch 
of  valley  meadow  is  one  wave  of  restless  color.  Thickly 
dotted  with  booths  for  refreshment,  for  sale  of  the  San  Isidro 
wares,  for  penny  shows,  farces,  wax  figures,  and  all  manner 
of  cheap  entertainments,  it  still  has  space  for  dancers,  wres- 
tlers, pelota  players,  for  swings,  stilts,  and  merry-go-rounds, 
and,  above  all,  for  the  multitude  of  promenaders,  sleepers,  and 
feasters.  The  bright  May  sunshine  gleams  and  dazzles  on 
the  soldiers'  helmets,  flashes  out  all  the  hues  and  tints  of  the 
varied  costumes,  and  even  lends  a  grace  to  the  brown  patches 
on  the  browner  tents.  The  tossing  of  limbs  in  the  wild,  free 
dances,  the  flutter  of  the  red  and  yellow  flags,  the  picturesque 
grouping  on  the  grass  of  families,  complete  to  dog  and  donkey, 
around  the  platter  of  homely  fare  and  the  skin  bottle  of  wine 
—  all  this  makes  a  panorama  on  which  one  would  gladly  gaze 
for  hours. 

Going  down  into  the  heart  of  the  festivity,  the  interest  still 
grows.  We  enter  one  of  the  cleanest  cantinas  and  invest  a 
peseta  in  a  bottle  of  sarsaparilla,  not  for  our  own  drinking, 
having  seen  the  water  in  which  the  glasses  are  washed,  but 
as  a  protection  against  the  horde  of  beggars  and  the  gypsy 
fortune  tellers.  It  works  like  a  charm.  As  we  respond  to 


23°  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

«. 

the  whining  appeals  with  the  civilities  of  social  greeting  and 
an  offered  glass  of  our  innocent  beverage,  the  ragged  peti- 
tioners are  straightway  transformed  into  ladies  and  gentle- 
men. They  draw  themselves  erect,  quaff  the  cup  to  our 
long  life  and  happiness,  discuss  in  self-respecting  tones  the 
weather  and  the  fete,  and  then,  without  another  hint  of 
solicitation,  bid  us  courteous  farewells.  We  mean  to  take 
out  a  patent  on  the  sarsaparilla  treatment  of  Spanish 
mendicancy. 

The  tent  itself  is,  like  the  rest,  shabby  and  tumbledown, 
furnished  with  rough  tables  and  benches,  where  cadets  are 
playing  dominos  as  they  drink,  and  two  country  sweethearts 
are  delectably  eating  what  appears  to  be  a  sardine  omelette 
off  the  same  cracked  plate.  A  clumsy  lantern  hangs  overhead, 
racks  of  bottles  are  fastened  up  along  the  canvas  walls,  and 
all  about  the  trampled  earth  floor  stand  water  jars,  great  bowls 
of  greens,  and  baskets  of  the  crusty  Spanish  bread.  A  pale 
young  Madrileno  drops  in  for  a  glass  of  wine,  but  before 
indulging  has  the  shy  little  rustic  who  serves  him  take  a  sip, 
languidly  begging  her,  "  Do  me  the  favor  to  sweeten  my 
drink."  The  yellow  cigarette-stains  show  on  his  white 
ringers  as  he  pats  her  plump  bare  arm.  The  child,  for  she 
is  scarcely  more,  and  as  brown  as  an  acorn,  responds  to 
these  amenities  by  giving  the  smiling  exquisite  alternate  bites 
of  her  hunk  of  goat's-milk  cheese,  while  her  mother  keeps  a 
sharp  eye  on  them  both. 

Comedy  and  tragedy  are  busy  all  about  us.  A  newly 
arrived  family  plods  wearily  by  in  ludicrous  procession, 
headed  by  a  tall  father  carrying  a  baby  and  closed  by  a  short 
child  carrying  a  cat.  A  showy  man  of  middle  age,  playing 


The  Patron  Saint  of  Madrid  231 

the  gallant  to  an  overdressed  brunette,  is  suddenly  confronted 
by  his  furious  wife  in  boy's  attire,  so  unluckily  well  dis- 
guised that,  before  recognizing  her,  he  has  replied  to  her 
rush  of  invective  with  a  blow  which  bids  fair  to  make  one  of 
her  eyes,  at  least,  blacker  than  those  of  her  rival.  Tradi- 
tional ballads  are  trolled,  popular  songs  are  echoed  from  group 
to  group,  and,  despite  bad  odors,  fleas,  and  whistles,  we  are 
reluctant  to  leave.  But  the  afternoon  grows  late,  the 
Arganda  and  Valdepenm  are  beginning  to  burn  in  the 
southern  blood,  an  occasional  flourish  of  cudgels  or  of  fists 
sends  the  police  scurrying  across  the  field,  and,  being  nothing 
if  not  discreet,  we  pay  our  parting  respects  to  San  Isidro. 

Coming  home  by  way  of  the  Prado  and  passing  the  proud 
shaft  of  yellow-brown  granite  that  towers  far  above  its 
enclosing  cypress  trees,  as  glory  above  death,  we  are  re- 
minded that  this  gala  month  has  brought  another  fiesta  to 
Madrid.  Every  second  of  May  the  capital  commemorates 
with  solemn  masses,  with  stately  civic  processions,  and  a 
magnificent  military  review,  the  patriots  who  fell  fighting  in 
the  streets  on  that  terrible  Monday  of  1808,  El  Dos  de  Mayo, 
which  brought  to  pass  the  war  of  independence.  One  may 
read  of  that  fierce  carnage  in  the  vivid  pages  of  Galdos  or 
behold  it  in  the  lurid  paintings  of  Goya.  To  see  once  is  to 
see  forever  that  line  of  French  soldiery,  with  steady  musket 
at  shoulder,  but  with  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  while  they 
shoot  down  squad  after  squad  of  their  defenceless  victims. 
In  pools  of  blood  lie  the  contorted  bodies,  with  heads  and 
breasts  horribly  torn  by  crimson  wounds,  while  of  those  who 
wait  their  turn  to  fall  beside  them  some  cover  the  eyes,  one 
stupidly  gnaws  his  hands,  one  kneels  and  wildly  peers  from 


232  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

under  his  shaggy  hair  into  the  very  muzzle  of  the  gun  before 
him,  one  flings  back  his  head  with  a  savage  grin,  half  of 
fright  and  half  of  courage,  one  desperately  strips  bare  his 
breast  and  in  agony  of  horror  glares  upon  the  guns,  but  the 
most  are  crouching,  shuddering,  sinking  —  and  all  only  an  item 
in  the  awful  cost  that  the  Spanish  people  have  paid  for 
Spanish  liberties.  The  celebration  of  1899  was  no  less 
brilliant  than  usual,  although  many  of  the  Madrid  papers 
spoke  bitterly  of  the  shadow  that  the  disastrous  first  of  May 
must  henceforth  cast  on  the  glorious  Second.  It  is  indeed 
gall  and  wormwood  to  all  Spain  that  the  Manila  defeat  so 
nearly  coincides  with  the  proudest  day  in  Spanish  annals. 

The  saint  of  El  Dos  de  Mayo  is  Saint  Revolution,  as  demo- 
cratic in  one  way  as  Saint  Agriculture  in  another.  When 
these  two  patrons  of  Madrid  understand  how  to  work  in 
fellowship,  when  there  comes  a  Government  in  Spain  that 
cares  chiefly  to  promote  the  welfare  of  the  laboring  people, 
the  world  may  discover  anew  the  vitality  and  noble  quality 
of  this  long-suffering  nation. 

We  saw  the  Romeria  once  more,  driving  through  .late  in 
the  evening,  when  the  closed  booths  glimmered  white  on  the 
silent  meadow. 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  a  pack  of  lies,"  said  a  thoughtful  Catholic, 
"but  what  is  one  to  do?  A  man  cannot  believe  in  religion  — 

O 

and  yet  how  to  live  without  it  ?  The  more  I  stay  away  from 
mass  the  more  I  want  and  need  it.  Think  of  the  comfort 
these  peasants  take  with  their  San  Isidro  !  " 

The  moonlight  shone  serene  and  beautiful  on  those  patched, 
shabby  tents,  transforming  them  to  silver. 


XVI 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    CASTELAR 

"The  death  of  the  Republic  will  be,  for  you,  for  us,  and  for  all,  the  death  of  lib- 
erty. The  death  of  liberty  will  be  the  death  of  the  Republic,  and  as  liberty  is  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  that  rises  from  the  dead,  with  liberty  shall  rise  again,  in  good  time, 
the  Republic."  — EMILIO  CASTELAR  :  Inaugural  Address,  1873. 

THE  present  state  of  Spanish  politics  was  amusingly 
expounded  to  me  by  a  spirited  young  philosopher 
of  Cadiz. 

"  In  the  north,"  he  said,  "  the  prevailing  sentiment  is  for 
Don  Carlos.  Nocedal  is  doing  all  he  can  to  fan  it  in  Anda- 
lusia, but  it  finds  its  natural  home  in  the  northern  provinces. 
To  be  sure,  there  is  San  Sebastian,  where  the  Court  summers, 
which  consequently  upholds  the  Queen,  and  there  are  Repub- 
lican groups ;  but  the  north  of  Spain,  broadly  speaking,  is 
Carlist.  The  centre  favors  the  reigning  family.  Possession 
is  a  strong  argument,  and  the  royal  forces  hold  •  Madrid. 
Barcelona  is  Republican.  Those  Catalans  are  always  thirsty 
for  a  fight.  But  the  middle  tract  of  Spain,  as  a  whole,  accepts 
the  existing  monarchy.  Castilians  are  too  gallant  to  strike 
against  a  woman  and  a  child.  The  south  is  Republican. 
For  the  best  part  of  the  century  Cadiz  and  Malaga  have  stood 
for  revolution.  Where  was  the  army  of  Isabel  II  defeated  ? 
And  why  has  the  Queen  never  seen  the  Alhambra  ? 


234  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

"  But,  let  me  tell  you,  these  Carlists,  these  Royalists,  these 
Republicans  are  all  fools.  If  there  is  anything  hopeless  in  this 
world,  it's  Spanish  politics.  All  the  uproar  of  the  Revolution 
ended  in  murdering  our  best  man  and  driving  out  our  best 
king.  For  myself,  I  mean  to  work  hard  and  marry  soon,  and 
have  a  little  Spain  in  my  own  house  that  shall  express  my 
own  convictions.  My  children  shall  be  good  Catholics,  but 
not  superstitious  bigots.  They  shall  be  well  educated,  if  I 
have  to  send  them  to  France  or  England  for  it.  They  shall 
be  disciplined,  but  under  the  law  of  liberty.  And  with  that 
I  propose  to  be  content.  All  my  politics  are  to  be  kept  under 
my  own  roof,  where  I  can  work  my  ideas  into  permanent 
form.  I  am  sick  of  the  way  in  which  Spain  boils  with  ideas 
that  only  destroy  one  another." 

This  Sir  Oracle  was  two-and-twenty,  with  the  prettiest 
of  girlish  photographs  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  the  smallest  of 
savings  in  the  bank,  but  I  remembered  his  words  in  the  days 
of  mourning  for  Emilio  Castelar. 

The  illustrious  tribune,  heavy-hearted  with  the  troubles  of 
his  country,  had  gone  to  the  home  of  friends,  at  a  village  in 
sunny  Murcia,  for  the  rest  and  comfort  that  nature  always 
gave  him.  His  almost  boyish  optimism,  "  nino  grande  y  grande 
nino  "  that  he  was,  had  kept  him  assured  of  peace  even  after 
the  destruction  of  the  Maine,  and  assured  of  victory  even 
after  the  battle  of  Manila.  Hence  the  pressure  of  fact  told 
on  him  all  the  more  cruelly.  "  I  die  a  victim  of  Spain's 
agony,"  he  wrote  in  a  personal  letter  shortly  before  the  end, 
and  his  last  article  for  publication,  finished  on  the  day  of  his 
death,  a  gloomy  discussion  of  the  outlook  for  the  Peace  Con- 
ference, contains  bitter  references  to  the  national  disasters  and 


The   Funeral  of  Castelar  235 

to    the    ravages   of   the    "  criminal    troop    of   pirates    in    the 
Philippines." 

He  died  on  Thursday,  the  twenty-fifth  of  May,  within  hear- 
ing of  the  Mediterranean  waves  he  loved  so  well,  with  tender 
faces  bent  over  him,  and  the  crucifix  at  his  lips.  The  news 
of  his  death  aroused  this  grief-weary  nation  to  a  fresh  out- 
burst of  sorrow.  Some  lamented  him  as  one  of  the  chief 
orators  of  modern  Europe,  recalling  his  eloquence  in  the 
tempestuous  times  of  the  Revolution,  when  he  "  intoned 
mighty  hymns  in  praise  of  liberty,  democracy,  and  the  sacred 
Fatherlandr'  Some  mourned  the  patriot,  pointing  proudly  to 
the  honorable  poverty  in  which  this  holder  of  many  offices,  at 
one  time  almost  absolute  dictator,  had  lived  and  died.  Some 
wept  for  the  cordial,  generous,  noble-hearted  man,  the  joy  of 
his  friends  and  idol  of  his  household.  His  political  sympa- 
thizers bewailed  the  loss  of  the  Spanish  apostle  of  democracy, 
the  lifelong  champion  of  liberty.  And  many  not  of  his  fol- 
lowing nor  of  his  faith  felt  that  a  towering  national  figure  had 
disappeared  and  another  glory  of  Spain  vanished  away. 

The  first  wreath  received  was  from  a  Republican  club  that 
sent  the  pansies  of  memory.  Among  the  five  hundred  tele- 
grams and  cablegrams  that  arrived  within  a  few  hours  at  the 
country-seat  where  he  had  died  was  one  from  over  seas,  which 
read:  "To  Castelar:  In  thy  death  it  seems  as  if  we  had  lost 
the  last  treasure  left  to  us,  the  voice  of  the  Spanish  race.  In 
thy  death  Spain  has  become  mute.  Yet  let  me  believe  that 
thou  respondest,  i  She  will  speak  again.' ': 

The  coming  of  the  body  to  the  capital  was  a  triumphal 
progress.  A  large  escort  of  friends,  who  had  made  speed  to 
Murcia  from  all  parts  of  the  Peninsula,  accompanied  it,  and 


236  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

there  were  crowds  at  the  stations,  even  in  the  mid-hours  of 
the  night,  with  tears,  handfuls  of  roses,  wreaths,  and  poems 
of  farewell.  There  was  often  something  very  touching  about 
these  offerings.  At  one  of  the  smaller  towns  a  young  girl 
hastily  gathered  flowers  from  the  garden  attached  to  the  station, 
broke  off  a  spray  from  a  blossoming  tree,  tied  these  with  the 
bright  ribbon  from  her  hair,  and,  clambering  up,  hung  this 
simple  nosegay  among  the  costly  tributes  that  already  nearly 
covered  the  outer  sides  of  the  funeral  car.  In  another  crowded 
station  the  village  priest  came  hurrying  forward,  bared  his  head 
with  deepest  reverence  before  the  garlanded  coaches  if  before 
the  altar,  and  chanted  the  prayers  for  the  dead.  Again,  a 
group  of  workmen,  allowed  to  enter  the  car,  fell  on  their 
knees  before  the  bier  and  prayed. 

The  train  was  met  on  its  arrival  in  Madrid  by  an  immense 
concourse  of  people.  Senor  Silvela  and  other  distinguished 
representatives  of  the  Government  were  there,  church  digni- 
taries, presidents  of  political  societies  and  literary  academies, 
but,  above  all,  the  people.  It  was  the  great,  surging  multi- 
tude that  gave  the  Republican  leader  his  grandest  welcome. 

This  poor  shell  of  Castelar,  the  man  said  to  bear  "  the  soul 
of  a  Don  Quixote  in  the  body  of  a  Sancho  Panza,"  lay  in 
state  through  Sunday  and  a  part  of  Monday  in  the  Palacio  del 
Congreso.  The  vestibule  had  been  converted  into  a  capilla 
ardiente.  Masses  were  chanted  ceaselessly  at  the  two  candle- 
laden  altars,  the  perfume  from  the  ever  increasing  heaps  of 
flowers  was  so  oppressive  that  the  guards  had  to  be  relieved 
at  short  intervals,  and  the  procession  of  people  that  filed 
rapidly  past  the  bier,  often  weeping  as  they  went,  reached  out 
from  the  Morocco  lions  of  the  doorway  to  the  Prado  and  the 


The  Funeral  of  Castelar  237 

Fountain  of  Neptune.  Many  of  the  humblest  clad,  waiting 
half  the  day  in  line,  held  pinks  or  lilies,  fast  withering  in  the 
sun,  to  drop  at  ,the  feet  of  the  people's  friend.  Early  on 
Monday  afternoon  the  doors  were  closed,  and  by  half-past 
three  the  funeral  cortege  began  to  form  in  the  Prado  for  its 
four-hour  march  by  way  of  the  Calle  de  Alcala,  Puerto  del 
Sol,  Calle  Mayor,  and  Cuesta  de  la  Vega,  to  the  cemetery  of 
San  Isidro. 

By  the  never  failing  Spanish  courtesy,  I  was  invited  to  see 
the  procession  from  the  balcony  of  a  private  house  in  the 
Alcala.  I  found  my  hostess,  a  vivacious  little  old  lady,  whose 
daughter  had  crowned  her  with  glory  and  honor  by  marrying 
into  the  nobility,  much  perturbed  over  the  failure  of  the  Queen 
Regent  to  show  sympathy  with  the  popular  grief. 

"There  were  one  hundred  and  forty-nine  wreaths  sent  in. 
The  very  number  shows  that  the  royal  wreath  was  lacking. 
I  am  a  Conservative,  of  course.  Canovas  was  my  friend,  and 
has  dined  here  often  and  often.  You  see  his  portrait  there 
beside  that  of  my  daughter,  la  Marquesa.  But  Canovas  loved 
Castelar,  and  would  not,  like  Silvela,  have  grudged  him  the 
military  honors  of  a  national  funeral.  As  if  the  dead  were 
Republicans !  The  dead  are  Spaniards,  and  Castelar  is  a 
great  Spaniard,  as  this  tremendous  throng  of  people  proves. 
There  were  not  nearly  so  many  for  Canovas,  though  the  aris- 
tocracy made  an  elegant  display  ;  there  were  not  so  many  for 
Alfonso  XII,  though  all  that  Court  and  State  and  army  could 
do  was  done,  and  the  Queen  rode  in  the  splendid  ebony  coach 
in  which  Juana  the  Mad  used  to  carry  about  the  body  of  that 
handsome  husband  of  hers. 

"  But  the  people  know  their  losses.     Never  in  my  life  have 


23  8  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

I  seen  the  Alcala  so  full  as  this.  Silvela  has  had  to  give  way, 
and  the  troops  will  come  —  at  least  a  few  of  them.  But  not 
a  word,  not  a  flower,  from  the  Queen  !  She  sent  a  magnifi- 
cent wreath  for  Canovas,  and  a  beautiful  letter  to  his  widow. 
But  for  Castelar,  her  people's  hero,  nothing.  Ah,  she  is  not 
simpattca.  She  does  not  know  her  opportunities.  She  does 
not  understand  the  art  of  winning  love.  Only  a  year  ago  she 
sent  a  wreath  to  the  funeral  of  Frascuelo,  the  torero.  And 
everybody  knows  how  3he  hates  the  bull-fight.  But  if  she 
could  drop  her  prejudices  then  to  be  at  one  with  the  feeling 
of  her  capital,  why  not  now  ?  They  say  she  has  a  neuralgic 
headache  to-day.  Ay,  Dios  mio  !  I  should  think  she  might." 
Listening  to  this  frank  chatter  and  watching  that  mighty 
multitude,  I  was  reminded  of  one  of  the  Andalusian  coplas :  — 

"  The  Republic  is  dead  and  gone  ; 

Bury  her  out  of  the  rain. 
But  see  !     There  is  never  a  Panteon 
Can  hold  the  funeral  train." 

And    this,  in    turn,  suggested   another  of  those    popular  re- 
frains :  — 

"  The  moon  is  a  Republican, 

And  the  sun  with  open  eye  ; 
The  earth  she  is  Republican, 
And  Republican  am  I." 

But  who  can  understand  this  ever  baffling  Spain  ?  After 
all,  what  was  the  significance  of  that  assembled  host  ?  How 
far  was  it  drawn  by  devotion  to  the  man,  and  how  far  by 
devotion  to  the  idea  for  which  he  stood  ?  How  far  by  idle 
curiosity,  by  the  Spanish  passion  for  pomps  and  shows,  and, 


The  Funeral  of  Castelar  139 

above  all,  for  a  crowd,  by  that  strange  Spanish  delight  in 
mucha  gente?  So  far  as  eye  could  tell,  this  might  have 
been  the  merriest  of  fetes.  The  wide  street  was  a  sea  of 
restless  color.  Uniforms,  liveries,  parasols,  hats,  frocks, 
pinafores,  kerchiefs,  blouses,  sashes,  fans,  flecked  the  sunshine 
with  a  thousand  hues.  Here  loitered  a  messenger  boy  in 
vivid  scarlet;  there  passed  a  waiter  with  a  silver  tray  gleam- 
ing on  his  head;  here  a  market  woman  bent  beneath  her 
burden  of  russet  sacks  bursting  with  greens ;  there  stood  a 
priest  in  shovel  hat  and  cassock,  smelling  a  great  red  rose ; 
here  a  gallant  in  violet  cape  escorted  a  lady  flaming  in  saffron  ; 
there  a  beaming  old  peasant,  with  an  azure  scarf  tied  over 
his  white  head,  threw  an  orange  to  attract  the  attention  of  a 
plodding  porter,  whose  forehead  was  protected  from  the  cords 
binding  the  boxes  to  his  back  by  several  folds  of  purplish 
carpeting. 

Streets  and  sidewalks,  balconies  and  windows,  all  were  full, 
and  everywhere  such  eagerness,  such  animation,  and  such 
stir !  The  children  sitting  on  the  curbstone  rocked  their 
little  bodies  back  and  forth  in  excitement.  Young  mothers 
danced  their  crying  infants,  and  young  fathers  shifted  the 
babies  of  a  size  or  two  larger  from  one  shoulder  to  the 
other.  A  boy  in  a  red  cap  climbed  a  small  locust  tree,  from 
whose  foliage  his  head  peeped  out  like  an  overgrown  cherry. 
The  crowd  indignantly  called  the  attention  of  authority  to 
this  violation  of  the  city  laws.  A  glittering  member  of  the 
Civil  Guard  sonorously  ordered  the  culprit  down.  The 
laughing  lad  refused  to  budge,  inviting  this  embarrassed  arm 
of  the  law  to  reach  up  and  get  him.  The  Guard  darkly  sur- 
veyed the  slender  stem  already  swaying  with  the  boy's  slight 


240  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

weight.  The  fickle  crowd,  whose  every  face  seemed  to  be 
upturned  toward  that  defiant  cherry,  cheered  the  rebel  and 
tossed  him  cigarettes  and  matches,  wherewith  he  proceeded  to 
enjoy  a  smoke.  The  Guard  caught  a  few  cigarettes  in  mid- 
career,  pocketed  them,  smiled  benevolently,  and  walked  away. 
The  lad  saucily  saluted,  and  the  multitude,  suddenly  impartial, 
pelted  them  both  with  peanuts. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  Madrid  populace  awaited  the  last 
coming  of  Castelar.  Even  when  the  funeral  train  was  pass- 
ing, the  crowd  showed  scant  respect.  Not  half  the  men 
uncovered  for  the  bier,  although  I  was  glad  to  see  the  cherry 
cap  whisked  off.  And  one  picturesque  gentleman  stood 
throughout  with  his  back  to  the  procession,  making  eyes  at 
his  novia  in  the  gallery  above  our  own. 

The  Government,  which  had  finally  assumed  the  charges 
and  care  of  the  obsequies,  had  been  remiss  in  not  providing 
lines  of  soldiers  to  hold  an  open  way  for  the  cortege.  As  it 
was,  the  procession  could  hardly  struggle  through  the  mass 
of  humanity  that  choked  the  street.  A  solitary  rider,  mounted, 
like  Death,  on  a  white  horse,  went  in  advance,  threatening 
the  people  with  his  sword.  A  division  of  the  Civil  Guard 
followed,  erect  and  magnificent  as  ever,  their  gold  bands 
glittering  across  their  breasts,  but  their  utmost  efforts  could 
not  effectually  beat  back  the  crowd.  Men  scoffed  at  the 
drawn  blades  and  pushed  against  the  horses  with  both  hands. 
The  empty  "coach  of  respect,"  black  as  night,  its  sable 
horses  tossing  high  white  plumes,  pressed  after,  and  then 
came  some  half  dozen  carriages  overflowing  with  wreaths  and 
palms,  and  all  that  wealth  of  floral  gifts.  The  crowd  caught 
at  the  floating  purple  ribbons,  and  called  aloud  the  names 


The  Funeral  of  Castelar  241 

upon  the  cards ;  a  monster  design,  with  velvet  canopy,  from 
the  well-known  daily,  El  Liberal,  a  beautiful  crown  from  the 
widow  of  Canovas,  and,  later  in  the  procession,  alone  upon 
the  coffin,  a  nosegay  of  roses  and  lilies,  brought  in  the  morn- 
ing by  a  child  of  four,  a  little  "  daughter  of  the  people,"  and 
bearing  the  roughly  written  words,  "  Glory  to  Castelar !  — 
A  workingman." 

The  train  of  mourners,  impeded  as  it  was  by  the  multitude, 
seemed  endless.  After  the  representatives  of  certain  charities 
there  walked,  in  gala  uniform,  white-headed  veterans  of  war. 
A  great  company  of  students  followed,  their  young  faces 
serious  and  calm  in  that  tempting  hurly-burly  of  the  street, 
and  after  them  an  overwhelming  throng  of  delegates  from 
all  manner  of  commercial  and  craft  unions.  Even,  the 
press  wondered  that  Castelar's  death  should  move  so  pro- 
foundly the  trading  and  laboring  classes,  almost  every  store 
and  workshop  in  Madrid  closing  for  the  afternoon.  Then 
came  the  Republican  committees,  and  behind  them  the 
representatives  of  countless  literary,  scientific,  and  artistic 
associations. 

At  this  point  in  the  procession  a  place  had  been  made  for 
all  or  any  who  might  wish,  as  individuals,  to  follow  Castelar 
to  the  tomb.  Some  fifteen  hundred  had  availed  themselves 
of  the  opportunity  —  a  motley  fellowship.  The  gentlemen 
preceding,  those  who  had  come  as  delegates  from  the  industrial 
and  learned  bodies  of  all  Spain,  wore  almost  without  exception 
the  correct  black  coat  and  tall  silk  hat,  and  paced,  when  they 
could,  with  a  steady  dignity,  or  halted,  when  they  must,  with 
a  grave  patience,  that  did  more  to  quiet  the  unruly  host  of 
spectators  than  all  the  angry  charges  of  the  police.  But  the 


Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

fifteen  hundred  showed  the  popular  variety  of  costume  — 
capes  and  blouses,  broad  white  hats  and  the  artisan's  colored 
cap.  Some  of  them  were  smoking,  an  indecorum  which,  by 
a  self-denial  that  counts  for  much  with  Spaniards,  nowhere 
else  appeared  in  the  long  array. 

But  whatever  might  be  the  deficiencies  of  dress  or  bearing, 
here,  one  felt,  was  the  genuine  sorrow,  here  were  the  men 
who  believed  in  Castelar  and  longed  to  do  him  honor.  The 
impulsive  onlookers  responded  to  this  impression,  and  more 
than  one  rude  fellow,  who  had  been  skylarking  a  minute 
before,  elbowed  his  way  into  the  troop  and  fell  soberly  into 
such  step  as  there  was.  Music  would  have  worked  wonders 
with  that  disorderly  scene,  but  the  bugles  and  cornets  were 
all  in  the  far  rear.  The  representatives  of  the  provinces,  as 
they  struggled  by,  were  hailed  with  jokes  and  personalities. 
The  chanting  group  of  clergy,  uplifting  the  same  ebony  cross 
that  they  had  borne  for  Canovas,  did  not  entirely  hush  the 
crowd,  nor  did  even  the  black-plumed  hearse  itself,  with  its 
solemn  burden.  For  close  after  came,  bearing  tapers,  a  group 
of  political  note,  closed  by  Sagasta  and  Campos,  and  then  the 
chiefs  of  army  and  navy,  including  Blanco  and  Weyler. 
Behind  these  walked  the  city  fathers,  the  senators,  the  diplo- 
mats, ex-ministers,  —  among  them  Romero,  Robledo,  —  then 
the  archbishop,  and,  finally,  Silvela,  with  his  colleagues. 

The  procession  was  closed  by  a  military  display  and  a  line 
of  empty  coaches,  sent,  according  to  Spanish  custom,  as  a 
mark  of  respect.  The  coach  sent  by  Congress,  a  patriotic 
blaze  of  red  and  yellow,  with  coachman  and  footman  in  red 
coats  and  yellow  trousers,  and  horses  decked  with  red  and 
yellow  plumes,  looked  as  if  it  had  started  for  the  circus  and 
had  missed  its  way. 


The  Funeral  of  Castelar  243 

The  sight  of  the  politicians  seemed  to  serve  as  spark  to  the 
Republican  fuel.  Even  while  the  hearse  was  passing  some- 
body shouted,  "  Long  live  Castelar !  "  but  the  crowd  corrected 
the  cry  to  "Long  live  the  glorious  memory  of  Castelar!" 
Then  came  a  heterogeneous  uproar :  "  Death  to  the  friars  !  " 
"  Long  live  the  Republican  Union  !  "  "  Down  with  Re- 
action !"  "Down  with  the  Jesuits!"  "Down  with  Pola- 
vieja  !  "  "  Down  with  the  Government !  "  "  Up  with  the 
Republic  !  "  "  Long  live  Spain  !  "  "  Long  live  the  army  !  " 
"Long  live  Weyler  !  " 

A  woman  was  run  over  in  the  confusion  and  a  man  was 
trampled,  but  the  procession,  aided  as  much  as  possible  by  the 
Civil  Guards  and  the  police,  slowly  worked  its  way  through 
the  Alcala  to  the  Puerto  del  &/,  where  the  people  poured  upon  it 
like  an  avalanche,  with  ever  louder  cries  against  ministry  and 
clergy,  until  the  scene  in  front  of  the  Government  Building 
suggested  something  very  like  a  mob.  Silvela  bore  his  silvered 
head  erect  and  exerted  a  prudent  forbearance.  But  few  arrests 
were  made,  and  the  military  force  that  sallied  out  from 
the  Government  Building  merely  stood  in  the  gates  to  awe 
the  rioters.  After  an  hour  and  a  quarter  the  transit  of  the 
square  was  effected.  The  disturbances  were  renewed  in 
the  Calle  Mayor  with  such  violence  that  the  ministers  were 
advised  to  withdraw,  but  they  only  entered  the  funeral  coaches, 
and,  the  Guards  exerting  themselves  to  the  utmost,  a  degree 
of  order  was  at  last  secured.  While  the  cortege  was  descend- 
ing the  difficult  hill  of  La  Vega,  the  Queen,  standing  in  one 
of  the  palace  balconies,  opera  glass  in  hand,  sent  a  messenger 
for  a  report  of  the  state  of  affairs  in  her  capital,  and  was 
visited  and  reassured  by  a  member  of  the  Government. 


244  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

After  this  stormy  journey  the  cemetery  of  San  Isidro  was 
reached  at  nightfall,  and  the  silent  orator  laid  to  rest  in  the 
patio  of  Santa  Maria  de  la  Cabeza,  beside  his  beloved  sister, 
Concha  Castelar.  Even  here  Republican  vivas  were  raised, 
and  again,  later  in  the  evening,  before  the  house  of  Weyler, 
who  appeared  upon  the  balcony  in  answer  to  repeated  calls. 
This  general,  more  popular  with  Spaniards  than  with  us, 
discreetly  absented  himself  on  Tuesday  from  the  high  mass 
chanted  for  Castelar  in  the  Church  of  San  Francisco  el 
Grande,  where  there  was  an  imposing  display  of  uniforms 
and  decorations. 

While  the  people  still  talked  of  their  lost  leader  and  pro- 
posed monuments  and  medals  in  his  honor,  the  Government 
held  firmly  on  its  course.  The  Royal  Progress  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  Cortes  on  the  following  Friday  was  a  suggestive 
contrast  to  the  procession  of  Monday.  Soldiers  lined  the 
curbstones  all  the  way  from  the  Royal  Palace  to  the  Congress 
Hall,  bands  were  posted  at  intervals,  the  royal  escort,  splen- 
didly mounted  and  equipped,  was  in  itself  a  formidable  force, 
while  additional  troops,  in  gala  dress,  paraded  all  the  city. 
The  balconies  along  the  royal  route  were  handsomely  draped, 
but  the  people  looked  on  at  the  gorgeous  array  of  coaches, 
gilded  and  emblazoned,  each  drawn  by  six  or  eight  choice 
horses,  with  sumptuous  plumes  and  trappings,  and  attended 
by  a  story-book  pomp  of  quaintly  attired  postilions,  coachmen, 
and  outriders,  in  a  silence  that  was  variously  explained  to  me 
as  indicating  respect,  hostility,  indifference. 

I  heard  no  vivas  and  saw  no  hats  raised  even  for  the  affable 
Infanta  Isabel,  riding  alone  in  the  tortoise-shell  carriage,  nor 
for  the  Princess  of  Asturias,  girlishly  attractive  in  rose  color 


The  Funeral  of  Castelar  245 

and  white,  nor  for  the  bright-faced  young  King,  ready  with 
his  military  salute  as  he  passed  the  foreign  embassies,  nor  for 
the  stately  Regent,  robed  as  richly  as  if  she  were  on  her  way 
to  read  a  gladder  message  than  that  which  the  opposition 
journals  indignantly  declared  "  no  message,  but  a  pious  prayer 
of  resignation." 

And  while  Madrid  jarred  and  wrangled,  the  flowers  brought 
by  the  little  daughter  of  the  workingman  drooped  on  the 
marble  slab  above  Castelar's  repose. 


XVII 

THE    IMMEMORIAL    FASHION 

"  For  as  many  auchours  affirme  (and  mannes  accions  declare)  that  man  is  but  his 
mynde ;  so  it  is  to  bee  daily  tride,  that  the  bodie  is  but  a  mixture  of  compoundes,  knitte 
together  like  a  fardell  of  fleashe,  and  bondell  of  bones,  and  united  as  a  heavie  lumpe  of 
Leade  (without  the  mynde)  in  the  sillie  substance  of  a  shadowe.  — THOMAS  CHURCHILL, 
GENTLEMAN. 

MY  Spanish  hostess,  brightest  and  prettiest  of  little 
ladies  despite  the  weight  of  sorrow  upon  sorrow, 
came  tripping   into  my  room  one  afternoon   with 
her  black  eyes  starry  bright  under  the  lace  mantilla. 
"And  where  have  you  been  to  get  so  nicely  rested  ?  " 
"  To  a  duelo" 

I  turned  the  word  over  in  my  mind.  Duelo?  Surely  that 
must  mean  the  mourning  at  a  house  of  death,  when  the  men 
have  gone  forth  to  church  and  the  burial,  and  the  women 
remain  behind  to  weep  together,  or  one  of  those  tearful  At 
Homes  kept,  day  after  day,  until  the  mass,  by  the  ladies  of  the 
afflicted  household  for  their  condoling  friends.  But  such  a 
smiling  little  senora  !  I  hardly  knew  what  degree  of  sympa- 
thy befitted  the  occasion. 

u  Were  you  acquainted  with  the  —  the  person  ?  " 
"  No,  I  had  never  seen  him.      He  had  been  an  officer  in 
the   Philippines  many  years,  and  came  home  very  ill,  fifteen 

246 


The   Immemorial   Fashion  247 

days  since.  I  wept  because  I  knew  his  mother,  but  I  wept 
much.  Women,  at  least  here  in  Spain,  have  always  cause 
enough  for  tears.  I  thought  of  my  own  matters,  and  had  a 
long,  long  cry.  That  is  why  I  feel  better.  There  is  so  little 
time  to  cry  at  home.  I- must  see  about  the  dinner  now." 

And  she  rustled  out  again,  leaving  me  to  meditate  on  Span- 
ish originality,  even  in  grief. 

In  any  country  the  usages  of  death  are  no  less  significant 
than  the  usages  of  life.  That  grim  necropolis  of  Glasgow, 
with  its  few  shy  gowans  under  its  lowering  sky,  those  tender, 
turf-folded,  church-shadowed  graveyards  of  rural  England, 
those  trains  of  mourners,  men  by  themselves  and  women  by 
themselves,  walking  behind  the  bier  in  mid-street  through  the 
mud  and  rain  of  wintry  Paris  to  the  bedizened  Pere  Lachaise 
or  Montparnasse  —  such  sights  interpret  a  nation  as  truly  as 
its  art  and  history;  but  the  burial  customs  of  Spain,  especially 
distinctive,  are,  like  most  things  Spanish,  contradictory  and 
baffling  to  the  tourist  view.  "La  Tierra  de  Vice  Versa"  is 
not  a  country  that  he  who  runs  may  read. 

The  popular  verses  and  maxims  treat  of  death  with  due 
Castilian  solemnity  and  an  always  unflinching,  if  often  ironic, 
recognition  of  the  mortal  fact.  "  When  the  house  is  finished," 
says  the  proverb,  "  the  hearse  is  at  the  door."  Yet  this  Span- 
ish hearse  is  one  of  the  gayest  vehicles  since  Cinderella's 
coach.  If  the  groundwork  is  black,  there  is  abundant  relief 
in  mountings  of  brilliant  yellow,  but  the  funeral  carriage  is 
often  cream-white,  flourished  over  with  fantastic  designs  in 
the  bluest  of  blue  or  the  pinkest  of  pink.  Coffins,  too,  may 
be  gaudy  as  candy-boxes.  The  first  coffin  we  saw  in  Spain 
was  bright  lilac,  a  baby's  casket,  placed  on  gilt  trestles  in  the 


248  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

centre  of  a  great  chill  church,  with  chanting  priests  sprinkling 
holy  water  about  it  to  frighten  off  the  demons,  and  a  crowd 
of  black-bearded  men  waiting  to  follow  it  to  the  grave.  Such 
a  little  coffin  and  not  a  woman  near !  The  poor  mother  was 
decently  at  home,  weeping  in  the  midgt  of  a  circle  of  relatives 
and  neighbors,  and  counting  it  among  her  comforts  that  the 
family  had  so  many  masculine  friends  to  walk  in  the  funeral 
procession  and  show  sympathy  with  the  household  grief. 
There  would  be,  on  the  ninth  day  after  and,  for  several  years 
to  come,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  death,  as  many  masses  as 
could  be  afforded  said  in  the  parish  church,  when,  again,  the 
friends  would  make  it  a  point  of  duty  to  attend. 

The  daily  papers  abound  in  these  notices,  printed  in  a 
variety  of  types,  so  as  to  cover  from  two  to  ten  square  inches, 
heavily  bordered  with  black,  and  surmounted,  in  case  of  adults, 
with  crosses,  and  with  cherubs'  heads  for  children.  I  take  up 
a  copy  of  La  Epocha  and  read  the  following,  under  a  cross  : 
"  Third  Anniversary.  Senorita  Dona  Francisca  Fulana  y 
Tal  died  the  twenty-sixth  of  June,  1896,  at  twenty-one  years 
of  age.  R.  I.  P.  Her  disconsolate  mother  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  ask  their  friends  and  all  pious  persons  to  be  so  good  as 
to  commend  her  to  God.  All  the  masses  celebrated  to-morrow 
morning  in  the  Church  of  San  Pascual  will  be  applied  to  the 
everlasting  rest  of  the  soul  of  the  said  senorita.  Indulgences 
are  granted  in  the  usual  form."  It  is  the  third  anniversary, 
too,  of  a  titled  lady,  whose  "  husband,  brothers,  brothers-in- 
law,  nephews,  uncles,  cousins,  and  all  who  inherit  under  her 
will  "  have  ordered  masses  in  two  churches  for  the  entire  day 
to-morrow,  and  announce,  moreover,  that  the  ecclesiastical 
authorities  grant  "  one  hundred  and  forty  days  of  indulgence 


The  Immemorial  Fashion  249 

to  all  the  faithful  for  each  mass  that  they  hear,  sacred  com- 
munion that  they  devote,  or  portion  of  a  rosary  that  they  pray 
for  the  soul  of  this  most  noble  lady." 

In  the  case  of  another  lady  of  high  degree,  who  died  yes- 
terday, "  having  received  the  Blessed  Sacraments  and  the 
benediction  of  his  Holiness,"  the  Nuncio  concedes  one  hun- 
dred days  of  indulgence,  the  Archbishop  of  Burgos  eighty, 
and  the  Bishops  of  Madrid,  Alcala,  Cartagena,  Leon,  and 
Santander  forty  each  ;  while  a  marquis  who  died  a  year  ago, 
"  Knight  of  the  Illustrious  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece,"  is 
to  have  masses  said  for  his  soul  in  seven  churches,  not  only 
all  through  to-morrow,  but  for  the  two  days  following. 

May  all  these  rest  in  peace,  and  all  who  mourn  for  them 
be  comforted  !  Yet  thought  drifts  away  to  the  poor  and  lowly, 
whose  grief  cannot  find  solace  in  procuring  this  costly  inter- 
cession of  the  Church  for  the  souls  they  love.  It  seems  hard 
that  the  inequalities  of  life  should  thus  reach  out  into  death 
and  purgatory.  We  used,  during  our  sojourn  in  Granada,  to 
meet  many  pathetic  little  processions  on  "  The  Way  of  the 
Dead."  Over  this  hollow  road,  almost  a  ravine,  the  fortress 
walls,  with  their  crumbling  towers,  keep  guard  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  terraced  gardens  of  the  Generalife,  with  their 
grand  old  cypresses,  on  the  other.  And  h'ere,  almost  every 
hour  of  the  day,  is  climbing  a  company  of  four  rough  men, 
carrying  on  their  shoulders  a  cheap  coffin,  which  perhaps  a 
husband  follows,  or  a  white-haired  father,  or,  hand  in  hand, 
bewildered  orphan  boys.  The  road  is  so  steep  that  often  the 
bearers  set  their  burden  down  in  the  shadow  of  the  bank-side, 
and  fling  themselves  at  full  length  on  the  ground  beside  it, 
thriftily  passing  from  man  to  man  the  slow-burning  wax  match 


250  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

for  their  paper  cigarettes.  I  remember  more  than  one  such 
smoking  group,  with  a  solitary  mourner,  hat  in  hand  and  eyes 
on  the  coffin,  yet  he,  too,  with  cigarette  in  mouth,  standing 
patiently  by.  All  who  pass  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
even  the  rudest  peasant  uncovers  his  head.  Very  shortly  the 
bearers  may  be  seen  again,  coming  down  the  hill  at  a  merry 
pace,  the  empty  box,  with  its  loose,  rattling  lid,  tilted  over 
the  shoulder  now  of  one,  now  of  another;  for  the  children 
of  poverty,  who  had  not  chambers  of  their  own  nor  the  dig- 
nity of  solitude  in  life,  lie  huddled  in  a  common  pit  after  death, 
without  coffin-planks  to  sever  dust  from  dust. 

A  century  ago  it  was  usual  to  robe  the  dead  in  monastic 
garb,  especially  in  the  habit  of  St.  Francis  or  of  the  Virgin  of 
Carmen,  and  within  the  present  generation  bodies  were  borne 
to  the  grave  on  open  biers,  the  bystanders  saluting,  and  bidding 
them  farewell  and  quiet  rest :  — 

"  '  Duerme  in  paz  !  '    dicen  los  buenos. 
'  Adios  ! '   dicen  los  demas." 

But  now  the  closed  coffin  of  many  colors  is  in  vogue.  In 
the  Santiago  market  we  met  a  cheerful  dame  with  one  of 
these  balanced  on  her  head,  crying  for  a  purchaser,  and  up 
the  broad  flights  of  steps  to  the  Bilbao  cemetery  we  saw  a 
stolid-faced  young  peasant-woman  swinging  along  with  a 
child's  white  coffin,  apparently  heavy  with  the  weight  of 
death,  poised  on  the  glossy  black  coils  of  hair,  about  which 
she  had  twisted  a  carmine  handkerchief. 

Very  strange  is  the  look  of  a  Spanish  cemetery,  with  its 
ranges  of  high,  deep  walls,  wherein  the  coffins  are  thrust  end- 
wise, each  abqve  each,  to  the  altitude  of  perhaps  a  dozen 


The  Immemorial   Fashion  251 

layers.  These  cells  are  sometimes  purchased  outright,  some- 
times rented  for  ten  years,  or  five,  or  one.  When  the  friends 
of  the  quiet  tenant  pay  his  dues  no  longer,  forth  he  goes  to 
the  general  ditch,  osario  comun,  and  leaves  his  room  for  another. 
Such  wall  graves  are  characteristically  Spanish,  this  mode  of 
burial  in  the  Peninsula  being  of  long  antiquity.  Yet  the  rich 
prefer  their  own  pantheons,  sculptured  like  little  chapels,  or 
their  own  vaults,  over  which  rise  tall  marbles  of  every  device, 
the  shaft,  the  pyramid,  the  broken  column  ;  while  a  poor 
family,  or  two  or  three  neighboring  households,  often  make 
shift  to  pay  for  one  large  earth  grave,  in  which  their  dead 
may  at  least  find  themselves  among  kith  and  kin.  Spanish 
cemeteries  are  truly  silent  cities,  with  streets  upon  streets 
enclosed  between  these  solemn  walls,  which  open  out,  at  inter- 
vals, now  for  the  ornamented  patios  of  the  rich,  now  for  the 
dreary  squares  peopled  by  the  poor.  Here  in  a  most  aristo- 
cratic quarter,  shaded  by  willows,  set  with  marbles,  paved  with 
flower  beds,  sleeps  a  duke  in  stately  pantheon,  which  is  carved 
all  over  with  angels,  texts,  and  sacred  symbols,  still  leaving 
room  for  medallions  boasting  his  ancestral  dignities.  A  double 
row  of  lamps,  with  gilded,  fantastically  moulded  stands,  and 
with  dangling  crystals  of  all  colors,  leads  to  the  massive  iron 
door.  What  enemy  has  he  now  to  guard  against  with  that 
array  of  bolts  and  bars  ?  Here  are  a  poet's  palms  petrified 
to  granite,  and  here  a  monument  all  muffled  in  fresh  flowers. 
Here  the  magnificent  bronze  figure  of  a  knight,  with  sword 
half  drawn,  keeps  watch  beside  a  tomb,  while  the  grave  beyond 
a  rose  bush  guards  as  well.  And  here  an  imaged  Sandalphon 
holds  out  open  hands,  this  legend  written  across  his  marble 
scarf,  "The  tear  fallethj  the  flower  fadeth;  but*God  treasureth 
the  prayer." 


252  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

There  is  a  certain  high-bred  reserve  about  these  costly 
sepulchres,  but  turning  to  the  walls  one  comes  so  face  to  face 
with  grief  as  to  experience  a  sense  of  intrusion.  Each  cell 
shows  on  its  sealed  door  of  slate  or  other  stone  the  name  and 
age  of  its  occupant,  and  perhaps  a  sentiment,  lettered  in  gilt  or 
black,  as  these:  "We  bear  our  loss  —  God  knows  how 
heavily."  "  Son  of  my  soul."  "  For  thee,  that  land  of  larger 
love ;  for  me,  until  I  find  thee  there,  only  the  valley  of  sorrow 
and  the  hard  hill  of  hope." 

Most  of  the  cells  have,  too,  a  glassed  or  grated  recess  in 
front  of  this  inscription  wall,  holding  tributes  or  memorials  — 
dried  flowers,  colored  images  of  saints  and  angels,  crucifixes, 
and  the  like.  Sometimes  the  resurrection  symbol  of  the 
butterfly  appears.  In  the  little  cemetery  at  Vigo  we  noticed 
that  the  flower-vases  were  in  form  of  great  blue  butterflies 
with  scarlet  splashes  on  their  wings.  Sometimes  there  are 
locks  of  hair,  personal  trinkets,  and  often  card  or  cabinet 
photographs,  whose  living  look  startles  the  beholder.  Out 
from  a  wreath  of  yellow  immortelles  peeps  the  plump  smile 
of  an  old  gentleman  in  modern  dress  coat ;  a  coquettish  lady 
in  tiara  and  earrings  laughs  from  behind  her  fan  ;  and  a  grove 
of  paper  shrubbery,  where  tissue  fairies  dressed  in  rose  petals 
dance  on  the  blossoms,  half  hides  the  eager  face  of  a  Spanish 
midshipman.  Where  the  photographs  have  faded  and  dimmed 
with  time,  the  effect  is  less  incongruous,  if  not  less  pathetic. 

The  niches  of  children  contain  the  gayest  possible  little 
figures.  Here  are  china  angels  in  blue  frocks,  with  pink 
sleeves  and  saffron  pantalets,  pink-tipped  plumes,  and  even 
pink  bows  in  their  goldy  hair.  Here  is  a  company  of  tiny 
Hamlets,  quaint  dollikins  set  up  in  a  circle  about  a  small 


The  Immemorial   Fashion  253 

green  grave,  each  with  finger  on  lip,  "  The  rest  is  silence." 
Here  are  two  elegant  and  lazy  cherubs,  their  alabaster  chubbi- 
ness  comfortably  bestowed  in  toy  chairs  of  crimson  velvet  on 
each  side  of  an  ivory  crucifix.  And  here  is  a  Bethlehem, 
and  here  a  Calvary,  and  here  the  Good  Shepherd  bearing  the 
lamb  in  His  bosom;  and  here,  in  simple,  but  artistic  wood 
carving,  the  Christ  with  open  arms,  calling  to  a  child  on  sick- 
bed to  come  unto  Him,  while  the  mother,  prostrate  before  the 
holy  feet,  kisses  their  shadow.  One  cannot  look  for  long. 
It  is  well  to  lift  the  eyes  from  the  niche  graves  of  Granada  to 
the  glory  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  that  soars  beyond,  and  turn 
from  the  patios  of  San  Isidro  to  the  cheerful  picture  of  Madrid 
across  the  Manzanares,  even  though,  prominent  in  the  vista, 
rises  the  cupola  of  San  Francisco  el  Grande.  This  is  the 
National  Pantheon,  and  within,  beneath  the  frescoed  dome, 
all  aglow  with  blue  and  gold,  masses  are  chanted  for 
the  dead  whom  Spain  decrees  to  honor,  as,  so  recently,  for 
Castelar. 

Near  this  church  a  viaduct,  seventy-five  feet  high,  crosses 
the  Calk  de  Segovia ;  and,  despite  the  tall  crooked  railings  and 
a  constant  police  patrol,  Madrilenos  bent  on  suicide  often 
succeed  in  leaping  over  and  bruising  out  their  breath  on  the 
stones  of  the  street  below.  It  is  a  desperate  exit.  The  Seine 
and  Thames  lure  their  daily  victims  with  murmuring  sound 
and  the  soft,  enfolding  look  of  water,  but  Spaniards  who 
spring  from  this  fatal  viaduct  see  beneath  them  only  the  cruel 
pavement.  That  life  should  be  harder  than  stone  !  And  yet 
the  best  vigilance  of  Madrid  cannot  prevent  fresh  bloodstains 
on  the  Calle  de  Segovia. 

Near  the  cemetery  of  San   Isidro,  across  the  Manzanares, 


254  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

are  two  other  large  Catholic  burial  grounds,  and  the  Cemen- 
t'erlo  Ingles. 

"  But  murderers,  atheists,  and  Protestants  are  buried  way 
off  in  the  east,"  said  the  pretty  Spanish  girl  beside  me. 

"  Oh,  let's  go  there  !  "  I  responded,  with  heretic  enthusiasm; 
but  I  had  reckoned  without  the  cabman,  who  promptly  and 
emphatically  protested. 

"  That's  not  a  pleasant  place  for  ladies  to  see.  You  would 
better  drive  in  the  Prado  and  Recoletos,  or  in  the  Buen  Retiro." 

We  told  him  laughingly  that  he  was  speaking  against  his 
own  interests,  for  the  Civil  Cemetery  was  much  farther  off 
than  the  parks.  He  consulted  his  dignity  and  decided  to 
laugh  in  return. 

"  It  is  not  of  the  pesetas  I  think  first  when  I  am  driving 
ladies.  But"  (with  suave  indulgence)  "you  shall  go  just 
where  you  like." 

So  in  kindness  he  gathered  up  his  reins  and  away  we 
clattered  sheer  across  the  city.  Presently  we  had  left  the 
fountain-cooled  squares  and  animated  streets  behind,  had 
passed  even  the  ugly,  sinister  Plaza  de  Toros,  and  outstripped 
the  trolley  track  ;  but  still  the  road  stretched  on,  enlivened 
only  by  herds  of  goats  and  an  occasional  venta^  where  drivers 
of  mule  trains  were  pausing  to  wet  their  dusty  throats.  We 
met  few  vehicles  now  save  the  gay-colored  hearses,  and  few 
people  except  groups  of  returning  mourners,  walking  in  be- 
wildered wise,  with  stumbling  feet. 

"The  Cemetery  of  the  Poor  is  opposite  the  Civil  Cemetery," 
said  our  cabman,  "  and  they  have  from  thirty  to  fifty  burials 
a  day.  The  keeper  is  a  friend  of  mine.  He  shall  show 
you  all  about." 


The  Immemorial   Fashion 

A  bare  Castilian  ridge  rose  before  us,  where  a  farmer,  lean- 
ing on  his  scythe,  was  outlined  against  the  sky  like  a  silhouette 
of  Death.  And  at  last  our  cheery  driver,  humming  bars  from 
a  popular  light  opera,  checked  his  mettlesome  old  mare, — 
who  plunged  down  hills  and  scrambled  up  as  if  she  were 
running  away  from  the  bull-ring,  where  she  must  soon  fulfil 
her  martyrdom,  —  between  two  dismal  graveyards.  From 
the  larger,  on  our  right,  tiptoed  out  a  furtive  man  and  peered 
into  the  cab  as  if  he  thought  we  had  a  coffin  under  the  seat. 

He  proved  a  blood-curdling  conductor,  always  speaking  in 
a  hoarse  whisper  and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  in  a  way  to 
make  the  stoutest  nerves  feel  ghosts,  but  he  showed  us,  under 
that  sunset  sky,  memorable  sights  —  ranks  upon  ranks  of 
gritty  mounds  marked  with  black,  wooden  crosses,  a  scanty 
grace  for  which  the  living  often  pay  the  price  of  their  own 
bread  that  the  dead  they  love  may  pass  a  year  or  two  out  of 
that  hideous  general  fosse.  Then  the  sexton  reluctantly  led 
us  to  the  unblessed,  untended  hollow  across  the  way,  where 
rows  of  brick  sepulchres  await  the  poor  babies  who  die  before 
the  holy  water  touches  them,  where  recumbent  marbles  press 
upon  the  dead  who  knew  no  upward  reach  of  hope,  and  where 
defiant  monuments,  erected  by  popular  subscription  and  often 
bearing  the  blazonry  of  a  giant  quill,  denote  the  resting-places 
of  freethinkers  and  the  agitators  of  new  ideas.  There  were 
some  Christian  inscriptions,  whether  for  Protestants  or  not 
I  do  not  know,  but  to  my  two  companions  there  was  no 
distinction  of  persons  in  this  unhallowed  limbo. 

Our  dusty  guide  led  us  hurriedly  from  plot  to  plot. 

"  They  say  the  mothers  cheat  the  priests,  and  there  are 
babies  over  yonder  that  ought  to  be  here,  for  the  breath  was 


256  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

out  of  them  before  ever  they  were  baptized.  They  say  the 
priests  had  this  man  done  to  death  one  night,  because  he 
wrote  against  religion.  He  was  only  twenty-two.  The  club 
he  belonged  to  put  up  that  stone.  They  say  there  are  evil 
words  on  it.  But  I  don't  know  myself.  I  can't  read,  thanks 
to  God.  They  say  it  was  through  reading  and  writing  that 
most  of  these  came  here." 

"  But  those  are  not  evil  words,"  I  answered.  "  They  are, 
1  Believe  in  Jesus  and  thou  shalt  be  saved.' '' 

He  hastily  crossed  himself,  "  Do  me  the  favor  not  to  read 
such  words  out  loud.  Here  is  another,  where  they  say  the 
words  are  words  of  hell." 

I  held  my  peace  this  time,  musing  on  that  broad  marble 
with  its  one  deep-cut  line,  "  The  Death  of  God." 

"  And  over  there,"  he  croaked,  pointing  with  his  clay- 
colored  thumb,  "  is  Whiskers." 

The  senorita,  whose  black  eyes  had  been  getting  larger 
and  larger,  gave  a  little  scream  and  fairly  ran  for  the  gate. 

Spaniards  have  usually  great  sympathy  for  criminals,  news- 
paper accounts  of  executions  often  closing  with  an  entreaty 
for  God's  mercy  on  "  this  poor  man's  soul,"  but  Whiskers^ 
the  Madrid  sensation  of  a  fortnight  since,  was  a  threefold 
murderer.  Passion-mad,  he  had  shot  dead  in  the  open  street 
a  neighbor's  youthful  wife,  held  the  public  at  bay  with  his 
revolver,  and  mortally  wounded  two  Civil  Guards,  before  he 
turned  the  fatal  barrel  on  himself. 

u  His  family  wanted  him  laid  over  the  way,"  continued  that 
scared  undertone  at  my  ear,  "but  the  bishop  said  no.  A 
murderer  like  that  was  just  as  bad  as  infidels  and  Protestants, 
and  should  be  buried  out  of  grace." 


The  Immemorial  Fashion  257 

I  felt  as  if  Superstition  incarnate  were  walking  by  my  side, 
and  after  one  more  look  at  that  strangely  peopled  patch  of 
unconsecrated  ground,  with  its  few  untrimmed  cypresses 
and  straggling  rose  bushes,  hillside  slopes  about  and  glory- 
flooded  skies  above,  I  gave  Superstition  a  peseta,  which  he 
devoutly  kissed,  and  returned  to  the  cab,  followed  by  the 
carol  of  a  solitary  bird. 

I  remember  a  similar  experience  in  Cadiz.  I  had  driven 
out  with  one  of  my  Spanish  hostesses  to  the  large  seaside 
cemetery,  a  mile  beyond  the  gate.  This  is  arranged  in  nine 
successive  patios,  planted  with  palms  and  cypresses.  In  the 
niches,  seashells  play  a  prominent  part.  The  little  angel 
images,  as  gay  as  ever,  with  their  pink  girdles  and  their 
purple  wings,  may  be  seen  swinging  in  shells,  sleeping  in 
shells,  and  balancing  on  the  edge  of  shells  to  play  their 
golden  flutes.  Near  by  is  an  English  and  German  cemetery, 
with  green-turfed  mounds  and  a  profusion  of  blossoming 
shrubs  and  flower  beds.  Not  sure  of  the  direction,  as  we 
were  leaving  the  Catholic  enclosure  I  asked  a  bandy-legged, 
leather-visaged  old  sexton,  who  might  have  been  the  very  one 
that  dug  Ophelia's  grave,  if  the  "  Protestant  cemetery  "  was 
at  our  right.  He  laid  down  his  mattock,  peered  about  among 
the  mausolea  to  see  if  we  were  quite  alone,  winked  prodig- 
iously, and,  drawing  a  bunch  of  keys  from  the  folds  of  his 
black  sash,  started  briskly  down  a  by-path  and  signed  to  us 
to  follow.  He  led  us  through  stony  passages  out  beyond 
the  sanctified  ground  into  a  dreary,  oblong  space,  a  patch  of 
weeds  and  sand,  enclosed  by  the  lofty  sepulchral  walls,  but 
with  a  blessed  strip  of  blue  sky  overhead. 

"  Here  they  are  !  "  he  chuckled.     "  They  wouldn't  con- 


258  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

fess,  they  died  without  the  sacraments,  and  here  they 
are." 

Some  names  lettered  on  the  wall  seemed  to  be  those  of 
Dutch  and  Norwegian  sailors,  who  had  perhaps  died  friend- 
less in  this  foreign  port.  There  were  pebble-strewn  graves 
of  Jews,  and  upright  marbles  from  which  the  dead  still 
seemed  to  utter  voice :  "  I  refuse  the  prayers  of  all  the 
saints,  and  ask  the  prayers  of  honest  human  souls.  I  believe 
in  God."  And  another,  "  God  is  knowledge."  And 
another,  "  God  is  All  that  works  for  Wisdom  and  for 
Love." 

"  Are  there  burial  services  for  these  ?  "   I  inquired. 

If  the  Church  of  England  could  have  seen  that  crooked 
old  sexton  go  through  his  gleeful  pantomime! 

u  There's  one  that  comes  with  some,  and  they  call  him 
Pastor!  And  he  scrapes  up  a  handful  of  dirt — so!  And 
he  flings  it  at  the  coffin  —  so!  And  then  he  stands  up 
straight  and  says,  4  Dust  to  dust ! '  I've  heard  him  say  it 
myself." 

"  God  of  my  soul ! "  cried  the  Spanish  lady  in  horror,  and 
to  express  her  detestation  of  such  a  heathenish  rite,  she  spat 
upon  the  ground. 

The  monarchs  of  Spain  do  not  mingle  their  ashes.  Who 
knows  where  Roderick  sleeps  ?  Or  does  that  deathless 
culprit  still  lurk  in  mountain  caverns,  as  tradition  has  it, 
wringing  his  wasted  hands  and  tearing  his  white  beard  in 
unavailing  penitence?  The  "Catholic  kings,"  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  lie,  not  where  they  had  planned,  in  that  beauti- 
ful Gothic  church  of  Toledo,  San  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  on 
whose  outer  walls  yet  hang  the  Moorish  chains  struck  from 


The   Immemorial   Fashion  259 

the  limbs  of  Christian  captives,  but  in  Granada,  the  city 
of  their  conquest,  where  they  slumber  proudly,  although 
their  coffins  are  of  plainest  lead  and  their  last  royal  chamber  a 
small  and  dusky  vault.  Pedro  the  Cruel  is  thrust  away  in  a 
narrow  wall-grave  beneath  the  Capilla  Real  of  Seville  cathe- 
dral. His  brother,  the  Master  of  Santiago,  whom  he  treach- 
erously slew  in  one  of  the  loveliest  halls  of  the  Alcazar,  is 
packed  closely  in  on  his  left,  and  Maria  de  Padilla,  for  whose 
sake  he  cut  short  the  hapless  life  of  Queen  Blanche,  on  his 
right.  Pleasant  family  discussions  they  must  have  at  the 
witching  hour  of  night,  when  they  drag  their  numb  bones 
out  of  those  pigeon-holes  for  a  brief  respite  of  elbow  room ! 
San  Fernando,  the  Castilian  conqueror  of  Castile,  canonized 
"  because  he  carried  fagots  with  his  own  hands  for  the 
burning  of  heretics,"  is  more  commodiously  accommodated  in 
a  silver  sarcophagus  in  the  chapel  above,  where  Alfonso  the 
Learned  also  has  long  leisure  for  thought.  Another  Alfonso 
and  another  Fernando,  with  another  wife  of  Pedro  the  Cruel, 
keep  their  state  in  Santiago  de  Compostela,  and  still  another 
Alfonso  and  two  Sanchos  have  their  splendid  tombs  in  the 
Capilla  Mayor  of  Toledo  cathedral,  while  in  its  Capilla  de 
los  Reyes  Nuevos,  a  line  descended  from  that  brother  whom 
Pedro  murdered,  sleeps  the  first  John,  with  the  second  and 
.third  Henrys. 

Cordova  cathedral,  although  this  lovely  mosque  recks  little 
of  Christian  majesties,  has  the  ordinary  equipment  of  an 
Alfonso  and  a  Fernando,  and  the  Royal  Monastery  of  Las 
Huelgas  in  Burgos  shelters  Alfonso  VIII,  with  his  queen, 
Eleanor  of  England.  In  less  noted  churches,  one  continually 
chances  on  them,  rey  or  reina,  infante  or  infanta,  dreaming 


260  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

the  centuries  away  in  rich  recesses  of  fretted  marble  and  ala- 
baster, with  the  shadow  of  great  arches  over  them  and  the 
deep-voiced  chant  around. 

But  since  Philip  II  created,  in  his  own  sombre  likeness, 
the  monastery  of  the  Escorial,  rising  in  angular  austerity 
from  a  spur  of  the  bleak  Guadarrama  Mountains,  the  royal 
houses  of  Austria  and  Bourbon  have  sought  burial  there. 
The  first  and  chief  in  the  dank  series  of  sepulchral  vaults, 
the  celebrated  Pantebn  de  los  Reyes,  is  an  octagon  of  black 
marble,  placed  precisely  under  the  high  altar,  and  gloomily 
magnificent  with  jasper,  porphyry,  and  gold.  It  has  an  altar 
of  its  own,  on  whose  left  are  three  recesses,  each  with  four 
long  shelves  placed  one  above  another  for  the  sarcophagi  of 
the  kings  of  Spain,  and  on  whose  right  are  corresponding 
recesses  for  the  queens.  As  the  guide  holds  his  torch,  we 
read  the  successive  names  of  the  great  Charles  I,  founder  of 
the  Austrian  line ;  the  three  Philips,  in  whom  his  genius 
dwindled  more  and  more ;  and  the  half-witted  Charles  II,  in 
whom  it  ignobly  perished.  The  coffin  lid  of  Charles  I  has 
twice  been  lifted,  once  as  late  as  1871,  in  compliment  to  the 
visiting  Emperor  of  Brazil,  and  even  then  that  imperial  body 
lay  intact,  with  blackened  face  and  open,  staring  eyes.  The 
gilded  bronze  coffin  of  Philip  II  was  brought  to  his  bedside 
for  his  inspection  in  his  last  hour  of  life.  After  a  critical,, 
survey  he  ordered  a  white  satin  lining  and  more  gilt  nails  — 
a  remarkable  sense  of  detail  in  a  man  who  had  sent  some  ten 
thousand  heretics  to  the  torture. 

Looking  for  the  Bourbons,  we  miss  the  first  of  them  all, 
the  melancholy  Philip  V,  who  would  not  lay  him  down  among 
these  Austrians,  but  sleeps  with  his  second  queen,  the  strong- 


The  Immemorial  Fashion  261 

willed  Elizabeth  Farnese,  in  his  cloudy  retreat  of  San  Ildefonso^ 
within  hearing  of  the  fountains  of  La  Granja.  His  eldest 
son,  Luis  the  Well-Beloved,  who  died  after  a  reign  of  seven 
months,  rests  here  in  the  Escorial,  but  Fernando  VI,  also  the 
son  of  Philip's  first  queen  —  that  gallant  little  Savoyarde  who 
died  so  young  —  was  buried  in  Madrid.  Charles  III,  best 
and  greatest  of  the  Spanish  Bourbons,  is  here,  the  weak 
Charles  IV,  Fernando  VII,  "  The  Desired "  and  the  Dis- 
graceful, and  Alfonso  XII,  while  a  stately  sarcophagus  is 
already  reserved  for  Alfonso  XIII. 

To  the  cold  society  of  these  five  Austrian  and  five  Bourbon 
sovereigns  are  admitted  nine  royal  ladies.  Of  these,  the  first 
three  are  in  good  and  regular  standing  —  the  queen  of  Charles  I 
and  mother  of  Philip  II,  the  fourth  queen  of  Philip  II  and 
mother  of  Philip  III,  the  queen  of  Philip  III  and  mother  of 
Philip  IV.  But  here  is  an  intruder.  Philip  IV,  who  had  an 
especial  liking  for  this  grewsome  vault,  and  used  often  to 
clamber  into  his  own  niche  to  hear  mass,  insisted  on  having 
both  his  French  and  Austrian  queens  interred  here,  although 
the  first,  Isabel  of  Bourbon,  is  not  the  mother  of  a  Spanish 
king,  the  promising  little  Baltasar  having  died  in  boyhood. 
The  brave  girl-queen  of  Philip  V  is  here,  in  double  right  as 
mother  both  of  Luis  and  Fernando  VI,  and  here  is  the  wife 
of  Charles  III  and  mother  of  Charles  IV.  But  of  sorry 
repute  are  the  last  two  queens,  the  wife  of  Charles  IV  and 
mother  of  Fernando  VII,  she  who  came  hurrying  down  those 
slippery  marble  stairs  in  feverish  delirium  to  scratch  Luisa 
with  scissors  on  her  selected  coffin,  and  this  other,  Maria 
Cristina,  wife  of  Fernando  VII  and  mother  of  the  dethroned 
Isabel,  a  daughter  who  did  not  mend  the  story.  It  will  not 


262  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

be  long  before  she  returns  from  her  French  exile  to  enter  into 
possession  of  the  sarcophagus  that  expects  her  here,  even  as 
another  sumptuous  coffin  awaits  the  present  regent.  Pity  it 
is  for  Isabel,  whose  name  is  still  a  byword  in  the  Madrid 
cafes  !  But  she  always  enjoyed  hearing  midnight  mass  in  this 
dim  and  dreadful  crypt,  and  will  doubtless  be  glad  to  come 
back  to  her  ancestors,  such  as  they  were,  and  take  up  her 
royal  residence  with  them  in  "  dust  of  human  nullity  and 
ashes  of  mortality." 


XVIII 

CORPUS    CHRISTI    IN    TOLEDO 

"  A  blackened  ruin,  lonely  and  forsaken, 
Already  wrapt  in  winding-sheets  of  sand, 
So  lies  Toledo  till  the  dead  awaken, 
A  royal  spoil  of  Time's  resistless  hand." 

—  ZORRILLA  :    Toledo. 

IN  the  thirteenth  century  the  doctrine  of  transubstantia- 
tion  assumed  especial  importance.  Miracle  plays  and 
cathedral  glass  told  thrilling  stories  of  attacks  made  by 
Jews  on  the  sacred  Wafer,  which  bled  under  their  poniards  or 
sprang  from  their  caldrons  and  ovens  in  complete  figure  of 
the  Christ.  The  festival  of  Corpus  Christi,  then  established 
by  Rome,  was  devoutly  accepted  in  Spain  and  used  to  be 
celebrated  with  supreme  magnificence  in  Madrid.  Early  in 
the  reign  of  Philip  IV,  Prince  Charles  of  England,  who,  with 
the  adventurous  Buckingham,  had  come  in  romantic  fashion 
to  the  Spanish  capital,  hoping  to  carry  by  storm  the  heart  of 
the  Infanta,  stood  for  hours  in  a  balcony  of  the  Alcazar, 
gazing  silently  on  the  glittering  procession.  How  they  swept 
by  through  the  herb-strewn,  tapestried  streets — musicians, 
standard-bearers,  cross-bearers,  files  of  orphans  from  the 
asylums,  six  and  thirty  religious  brotherhoods,  monks  of  all 
the  orders,  barefoot  friars,  ranks  of  secular  clergy  and  brothers 

263 


264  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

of  charity,  the  proud  military  orders  of  Alcantara,  Calatrava, 
and  Santiago,  the  Councils  of  the  Indies,  of  Aragon,  of 
Portugal,  the  Supreme  Council  of  Castile,  the  City  Fathers  of 
Madrid,  the  Governmental  Ministers  of  Spain  and  Spanish 
Italy,  the  Tribunal  of  the  Holy  Office,  preceded  by  a  long 
array  of  cloaked  and  hooded  Familiars,  bishops  upon  bishops 
in  splendid,  gold-enwoven  vestments,  priests  of  the  royal 
chapel  displaying  the  royal  banner,  bearers  of  the  crosier 
and  the  sacramental  vessels,  the  Archbishop  of  Santiago, 
royal  chaplains  and  royal  majordomos,  royal  pages  with  tall 
wax  tapers,  incense  burners,  the  canopied  mystery  of  the 
Eucharist,  the  king,  the  prince,  cardinals,  nuncio,  the 
inquisitor  general,  the  Catholic  ambassadors,  the  patriarch 
of  the  Indies,  the  all-powerful  Count-Duke  Olivares,  grandees, 
lesser  nobility,  gentlemen,  and  a  display  of  Spanish  and 
German  troops,  closed  by  a  great  company  of  archers. 
So  overwhelming  was  that  solemn  progress,  with  its  brilliant 
variety  of  sacerdotal  vestments,  knightly  habits,  robes  of 
state  and  military  trappings,  its  maces,  standards,  crosses,  the 
flash  of  steel,  gold,  jewels,  and  finally  the  sheen  of  candles, 
the  clouds  of  incense,  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells  before  the 
Santisimo  Corpus^  that  the  heretic  prince  and  his  reckless 
companion  fell  to  their  knees.  One  Spanish  author  pauses  to 
remark  that  for  these,  who  could  even  then  reject  the  open 
arms  of  the  Mother  Church,  the  assassin's  blow  and  the 
Whitehall  block  were  naturally  waiting. 

Such  a  pomp  would  have  been  worth  the  seeing,  but  we 
had  arrived  at  Madrid  almost  three  centuries  too  late.  Catho- 
lic friends  shrugged  shoulder  at  mention  of  the  Corpus 
procession,  "  Vale  poco"  And  as  for  the  famous  autos  sacra- 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  265 

mentales,  which  used  to  be  celebrated  at  various  times  during 
the  eight  days  of  the  Corpus  solemnity,  they  may  be  read  in 
musty  volumes,  but  can  be  seen  in  the  city  squares  no  more. 
Calderon  is  said  to  have  written  the  trifling  number  of  seventy- 
two,  and  Lope  de  Vega,  whose  fingers  must  have  been  tipped 
with  pens,  some  four  hundred. 

If  only  our  train,  which  then  would  not  have  been  a  train, 
had  brought  us,  who  then  would  not  have  come,  to  Madrid 
in  season  for  a  Corpus  celebration  under  the  Austrian  dynasty, 
we  could  have  attended  an  open-air  theatre  of  a  very  curious 
sort.  All  the  way  to  the  Plaza,  we  would  have  seen  festivity 
at  its  height,  pantomimic  dances,  merry  music,  struttings  of 
giants  and  antics  of  dwarfs,  and  perhaps  groups  of  boys  in- 
sulting cheap  effigies  of  snakes,  modelled  after  the  monstrous 
Tarasca,  carried  in  the  Corpus  parade  in  token  of  Christ's 
victory  over  the  Devil.  At  intervals  along  the  route,  adorned 
with  flowers  and  draperies,  and  reserved  for  the  procession  and 
the  dramatic  cars,  would  have  been  altars  hung  with  rich 
stufFs  from  the  Alcazar  and  the  aristocratic  palaces;  silks  and 
cloth  of  gold,  brocades,  velvets,  and  shimmering  wefts  of  the 
Indies.  The  one-act  play  itself  might  be  after  the  general 
fashion  of  the  mediaeval  Miracles,  —  verse  dialogue,  tuned  to 
piety  with  chords  of  fun,  for  the  setting  forth  of  Biblical 
stories.  Abraham's  sacrifice  of  Isaac,  Moses  feeding  the 
Israelites  with  manna,  the  patience  of  Job,  the  trials  of 
Joseph,  David,  and  Daniel,  were  thus  represented. 

More  frequently,  the  auto  sacramental  belonged  to  the  so- 
called  Morality  type  of  early  Christian  drama,  being  an  allegori- 
cal presentation  of  human  experience  or  exposition  of  church 
doctrine.  Such  were  "  The  Fountain  of  Grace,"  "  The 


266  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Journey  of  the  Soul,"  "The  Dance  of  Death,"  "The 
Pilgrim."  Sometimes  a  Gospel  parable,  as  the  "  Lost  Sheep  " 
or  the  "  Prodigal  Son,"  gave  the  dramatic  suggestion.  But 
these  Spanish  spectacles  sought  to  associate  themselves,  as 
closely  as  might  be,  with  the  Corpus  worship,  and  many  of 
them  bear  directly,  in  one  way  or  another,  upon  this  sacrament. 

If,  for  instance,  we  had  chanced  on  the  Madrid  festival  in 
1 68 1,  we  could  have  witnessed  in  the  decorated  Plaza,  with 
its  thronged  balconies,  the  entrance  of  four  scenic  platforms 
or  cars.  The  first,  painted  over  with  battles,  bears  a  Gothic 
castle ;  the  second,  with  pictures  of  the  sea,  a  gallant  ship  ; 
the  third,  a  starry  globe ;  the  fourth,  a  grove  and  garden, 
whose  central  fountain  is  so  shaped  as  to  form,  above,  the 
semblance  of  an  altar.  In  the  complicated  action  of  the  play, 
when  the  Soul,  besieged  in  her  fortress  by  the  Devil,  whose 
allies  are  the  World  and  the  Fle^h,  calls  upon  Christ  for  suc- 
cor, the  hollow  sphere  of  the  third  car  opens,  revealing  the 
Lord  enthroned  in  glory  amid  cherubim  and  seraphim ;  but 
the  climax  of  the  triumph  is  not  yet.  That  stout  old  general, 
the  Devil,  rallies  fresh  forces  to  the  attack,  such  subtle  foes 
as  Atheism,  Judaism,  and  Apostasy,  and  whereas,  before,  the 
Senses  bore  the  brunt  of  the  conflict,  it  is  the  Understanding 
that  girds  on  armor  now.  Yet  in  the  final  outcome  not  the 
Understanding,  but  Faith  draws  the  veil  from  before  the 
altar  of  the  fourth  car,  and  there,  in  the  consecrated  vessel  for 
the  holding  of  the  Wafer,  appears  the  "  Passion  Child,"  the 
white  bread  from  Heaven,  "very  flesh  and  very  blood  that  are 
the  price  of  the  soul's  salvation." 

That  is  the  way  Spain  kept  her  Corpus  fiesta  in  the  good 
old  times  of  Charles  the  Bewitched  ;  but  not  now.  After 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  267 

the  procession,  the  bull-fight ;  and  after  the  bull-fight,  the 
latest  vaudeville  or  ballet.  Last  year  it  rained  on  Corpus 
Thursday,  which  fell  on  the  first  of  June,  and  Madrid  gave 
up  the  procession  altogether.  Some  of  the  Opposition  papers 
started  the  cry  that  this  was  shockingly  irreligious  in  Silvela, 
but  when  the  Government  organs  haughtily  explained  that 
it  was  the  decision  of  the  archbishop  and  Senor  Silvela 
was  not  even  consulted,  the  righteous  indignation  of  the 
Liberals  straightway  subsided.  The  procession,  which  was 
to  have  been  a  matter  of  kettledrums  and  clarionets,  soldiery, 
"coaches  of  respect"  from  the  palace  and  the  city  corpora- 
tion, and  a  full  showing  of  the  parochial  clergy,  did  not  seem 
to  be  missed  by  the  people.  Corpus  has  long  ceased  to  be  a 
chief  event  in  the  Capital. 

There  are  a  few  cities  in  Spain,  however,  where  the  Corpus 
fete  is  maintained  with  something  of  the  old  gayety  and 
splendor.  Bustling  Barcelona,  never  too  busy  for  a  frolic, 
keeps  it  merrily  with  an  elaborate  parade  from  the  cathedral 
all  about  the  city,  and  —  delightful  feature!  —  the  distribution 
of  flowers  and  sweetmeats  among  the  ladies.  The  procession 
in  Valencia  resembles  those  of  Holy  Week  in  Seville.  On 
litters  strewn  with  flowers  and  thick-set  with  candle-lights  are 
borne  carved  groups  of  sacred  figures  and  richly  attired  images 
of  Christ  and  the  Virgin.  But  it  is  in  lyric  Andalusia  that 
these  pageantries  are  most  at  home.  Among  her  popular 
cop/as  is  one  that  runs  :  — 

"  Thursdays  three  in  the  year  there  be, 

That  shine  more  bright  than  the  sun's  own  ray  — 
Holy  Thursday,  Corpus  Christi, 
And  our  Lord's  Ascension  Day." 


268  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Cadiz,  like  Valencia,  carries  the  pasos  in  the  Corpus  pro- 
cession. In  Seville,  where  the  street  displays  of  Holy  Week 
are  under  the  charge  of  the  religious  brotherhoods,  or  cofra- 
dias,  Corpus  Christi  gives  opportunity  for  the  clergy  and 
aristocracy  to  present  a  rival  exhibition  of  sanctified  luxury 
and  magnificence. 

But  it  is  in  beautiful  belated  Granada  that  the  Corpus  fete 
is  now  at  its  best.  A  brilliantly  illustrated  programme,  whose 
many-hued  cover  significantly  groups  a  gamboge  cathedral 
very  much  in  the  background,  and  a  flower-crowned  Anda- 
lusian  maiden,  draped  in  a  Manila  shawl,  with  a  prodigious 
guitar  at  her  feet,  very  much  in  the  foreground,  announces  a 
medley  of  festivities  extending  over  eleven  days.  This  cheer- 
ful booklet  promises,  together  with  a  constant  supply  of 
military  music,  balcony  decorations,  and  city  illuminations, 
an  assortment  of  pleasures  warranted  to  suit  every  taste  — 
infantry  reviews,  cavalry  reviews,  cadet  reviews,  masses  under 
roof  and  masses  in  the  open,  claustral  processions,  parades  of 
giants,  dwarfs,  and  La  Tarasca,  a  charity  raffle  in  the  park 
under  the  patronage  of  Granada's  most  distinguished  ladies, 
the  erection  of  out-of-door  altars,  the  dispensing  of  six  thou- 
sand loaves  of  bread  among  the  poor  (from  my  experience  of 
Granada  beggars  I  should  say  the  supply  was  insufficient),  a 
solemn  Corpus  procession  passing  along  white-canopied  streets 
under  a  rain  of  flowers,  three  regular  bull-fights  with  the 
grand  masters  Guerrita,  Lagartijillo,  and  Fuentes,  followed  by  a 
gloriously  brutal  corrida,  with  young  beasts  and  inexperienced 
fighters,  cattle  fair,  booths,  puppet  shows,  climbing  of  greased 
poles,  exhibition  of  fine  arts  and  industries,  horse  racing,  polo, 
pigeon  shoot,  trapeze,  balloon  ascensions,  gypsy  dances,  and 
fireworks  galore. 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  269 

But  even  faithful  Granada  shared  in  the  strange  catalogue 
of  misfortunes  which  attended  Corpus  last  year.  The  rains 
descended  on  her  Chinese  lanterns,  and  the  winds  beat  against 
her  Arabic  arches  with  their  thousands  of  gas-lights.  On  the 
sacred  Thursday  itself,  the  Andalusian  weather  made  a  most 
unusual  demonstration  of  hurricane  and  cloudburst,  with  inter- 
ludes of  thunder  and  lightning.  Great  was  the  damage  in  field, 
vineyard,  and  orchard,  and  as  for  processions,  they  were 
in  many  places  out  of  the  question.  Even  Seville  and  Cordova 
had  to  postpone  both  parades  and  bull-fights.  But  this  was  not 
the  worst.  In  Ecija,  one  of  the  quaintest  cities  of  Andalusia, 
an  image  of  the  Virgin  as  the  Divine  Shepherdess,  lovingly 
arrayed  and  adorned  with  no  little  outlay  by  the  nuns  of  the 
Conception,  caught  fire  in  the  procession  from  a  taper,  like 
Seville's  Virgin  of  Montserrat  in  the  last  Semana  Santa.  The 
Divina  Pastora  barely  escaped  with  her  jewels.  Her  elabo- 
rate garments,  the  herbage  and  foliage  of  her  pasture,  and 
one  of  her  woolly  sheep  were  burned  to  ashes.  In  Palma  de 
Mallorca,  a  romantic  town  of  the  Balearic  Isles,  a  balcony, 
whose  occupants  were  leaning  out  to  watch  the  procession, 
broke  away,  and  crashed  down  into  the  midst  of  the  throng. 
A  young  girl  fell  upon  the  bayonet  of  a  soldier  marching 
beneath,  and  was  grievously  hurt.  Others  suffered  wounds 
which,  in  one  case  at  least,  proved  fatal.  The  Opposition 
journals  did  not  fail  to  make  capital  out  of  these  untoward 
events,  serving  them  up  in  satiric  verse  with  the  irreverent 
suggestion  that,  if  this  was  all  the  favor  a  reactionary  and 
ultra-Catholic  government  could  secure  from  Heaven,  it  was 
time  to  go  back  to  Sagasta. 

The  ecclesiastical  Toledo,  seat  of  the  Primate  of  all  Spain, 


270  '  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

is  one  of  the  Spanish  cities  which  still  observe  Corpus  Christi 
as  a  high  solemnity,  and  Toledo  is  within  easy  pilgrimage 
distance  of  Madrid.  I  had  already  passed  two  days  in  that 
ancient  capital  of  the  Visigoths,  ridding  my  conscience  of  the 
sightseers'  burden,  and  I  both  longed  and  dreaded  to  return. 
The  longing  overcame  the  dread,  and  I  dropped  in  at  the 
Estadon  del  Mediodia  for  preliminary  inquiries.  I  could  dis- 
cover no  bureau  of  information  and  no  official  authorized  to 
instruct  the  public,  but  in  this  lotus-eating  land  what  is  no- 
body's business  is  everybody's  business.  There  could  not  be 
a  better-humored  people.  The  keeper  of  the  bookstand  aban- 
doned his  counter,  his  would-be  customers  lighting  cigarettes 
and  leaning  up  against  trucks  and  stacks  of  luggage  to  wait 
for  his  return,  and  escorted  me  the  length  of  the  station  to 
find  a  big  yellow  poster,  which  gave  the  special  time-table  for 
Corpus  Thursday.  The  poster  was  so  high  upon  the  wall 
that  our  combined  efforts  could  not  make  it  out ;  whereupon 
a  nimble  little  porter  dropped  the  trunk  he  was  carrying,  and 
climbed  on  top  of  it  for  a  better  view.  In  that  commanding 
position  he  could  see  clearly  enough,  but  just  when  my  hopes 
were  at  the  brightest,  he  regretfully  explained  that  he  had 
never  learned  to  read.  As  he  clambered  down  the  proprietor 
of  the  trunk,  who  had  been  looking  on  with  as  much  serenity 
as  if  trains  never  went  and  starting  bells  never  rang,  mounted 
in  turn.  This  gentleman,  all  smiles  and  bows  and  tobacco 
smoke,  read  off  the  desired  items,  which  the  keeper  of  the 
bookstand  copied  for  me  in  a  leisurely,  conversational  manner, 
with  a  pencil  lent  by  one  bystander  on  a  card  donated  by 
another. 

There   is  really  something  to  be  said  for  the  Spanish  way 


Corpus  Christ!  in  Toledo  271 

of  doing  business.  It  takes  time,  but  if  time  is  filled  with 
human  kindliness  and  social  courtesies,  why  not  ?  What  is 
time  for  ?  Whenever  I  observed  that  I  was  the  only  person 
in  a  hurry  on  a  Madrid  street,  I  revised  my  opinion  as  to  the 
importance  of  my  errand. 

As  I  entered  the  station  again  on  the  first  of  June  at  the 
penitential  hour  of  quarter  past  six  in  the  morning,  I  was 
reflecting  complacently  on  my  sagacity  as  a  traveller.  Had  I 
not  bethought  me  that,  even  in  the  ecclesiastical  centre  of 
Spain  and  on  this  solemn  festival,  there  might  be  peril  for  a 
stranger's  purse  ?  What  financial  acumen  I  had  shown  in 
calculating  that,  since  my  round-trip  ticket  to  Toledo  before 
had  cost  three  dollars,  second  class,  I  could  probably  go  first 
class  on  this  excursion  for  the  same  sum,  while  two  dollars 
more  would  be  ample  allowance  for  balcony  hire  and  extras  ! 
And  yet  how  prudent  in  me  to  have  tucked  away  a  reserve 
fund  in  a  secret  pocket  inaccessible  even  to  myself!  But 
why  was  the  station  so  jammed  and  crammed  with  broad- 
hatted  Spaniards  ?  And  what  was  the  meaning  of  that  long 
line  of  roughs,  stretching  far  out  from  the  third-class  ticket 
office  ?  Bull-fight  explained  it  all.  Even  reverend  Toledo 
must  keep  the  Corpus  holy  by  the  public  slaughter  of  six 
choice  bulls  and  as  many  hapless  horses  as  their  blind  rage 
might  rend.  Worse  than  the  pagan  altars  that  reeked  with 
the  blood  of  beasts,  Spain's  Christian  festivals  demand  torture 
in  addition  to  butchery. 

There  were  no  first-class  carriages,  it  appeared,  upon  the 
Corpus  train,  and  my  round-trip  ticket,  second  class,  cost  only 
a  dollar,  leaving  me  with  an  embarrassment  of  riches.  Purs- 
ing the  slip  of  pasteboard  which,  to  my  disgust,  was  stamped 


272  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

in  vermilion  letters  Corrida  de  Toros,  I  sped  me  to  the  train, 
where  every  seat  appeared  to  be  taken,  although  it  lacked 
twenty  minutes  of  the  advertised  time  for  departure;  but  a 
bald-headed  philanthropist  called  out  from  a  carriage  window 
that  they  still  had  room  for  one.  Gratefully  climbing  up,  I 
found  myself  in  the  society  of  a  family  party,  off  for  Toledo 
to  celebrate  the  saint-day  of  their  hazel-eyed  eight-year-old 
by  that  treat  of  treats,  a  child's  first  bull-fight.  When  they 
learned  that  I  was  tamely  proposing  to  keep  Corpus  Christi 
by  seeing  the  procession  and  not  by  "  assisting  at  the  func- 
tion of  bulls,"  their  faces  clouded ;  but  they  decided  to  make 
allowance  for  my  foreign  idiosyncrasies. 

The  train,  besieged  by  a  multitude  of  ticket-holders  for 
whom  there  were  no  places,  was  nearly  an  hour  late  in  getting 
off.  The  ladies  dozed  and  chattered  ;  the  gentlemen  smoked 
and  dozed ;  little  Hazel-eyes  constantly  drew  pictures  of 
bulls  with  a  wet  finger  on  the  window  glass.  Reminded 
again  by  my  handbag  literature  that  Toledo  is  a  nest  of 
thieves,  I  would  gladly  have  put  away  my  extra  money,  but 
there  was  never  a  moment  when  all  the  gentlemen  were  asleep 
at  once. 

It  was  after  ten  when  we  reached  our  destination,  the  boy 
wild  with  rapture  because  we  had  actually  seen  a  pasture  of 
grazing  bulls.  A  swarm  of  noisy,  scrambling,  savage-looking 
humanity  hailed  the  arrival  of  the  train,  and  I  had  hardly 
made  my  way  even  to  the  platform  before  I  felt  an  ominous 
twitch  at  my  pocket.  The  light-fingered  art  must  have 
degenerated  in  Toledo  since  the  day  of  that  clever  cutpurse 
of  the  "  Exemplary  Tales."  Turning  sharply,  I  confronted 
a  group  of  my  fellow-worshippers,  who,  shawled  and  sashed 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  273 

and  daggered,  looked  as  if  they  had  been  expressly  gotten  up 
for  stage  bandits.  From  the  shaggy  pates,  topped  by  gaudy, 
twisted  handkerchiefs  —  a  headdress  not  so  strange  in  a  city 
whose  stone  walls  looked  for  centuries  on  Moorish  turbans  — 
to  the  bright-edged,  stealthy  hemp  sandals,  these  were  pick- 
pockets to  rejoice  a  kodak.  Their  black  eyes  twinkled  at  me 
with  wicked  triumph,  while  it  flashed  across  my  mind  that  my 
old  hero,  the  Cid,  was  probably  much  of  their  aspect,  and  cer- 
tainly gained  his  living  in  very  similar  ways.  There  were  a 
full  score  of  these  picturesque  plunderers,  and  not  a  person  of 
the  nineteenth  century  in  sight.  Since  there  was  nothing  to 
do,  I  did  it,  and  giving  them  a  parting  glance  of  moral  disap- 
proval, to  which  several  of  the  sauciest  responded  by  blithely 
touching  their  forelocks,  I  pursued  my  pilgrim  course,  purged 
of  vainglory.  At  all  events,  I  was  delivered  from  temptation 
as  to  a  questionable  peseta  in  my  purse  —  my  pretty  Paris 
purse  !  —  and  I  should  not  be  obliged  to  travel  again  on  that 
odious  bull-fight  ticket. 

We  were  having  "  fool  weather,"  blowing  now  hot,  now 
cold,  but  as  at  this  moment  the  air  was  cool,  and  every  pos- 
sible vehicle  seemed  packed,  thatched,  fringed  with  clinging 
passengers,  I  decided,  not  seeking  further  reasons,  to  walk  up 
to  the  town.  And  what  a  town  it  is !  Who  could  remember 
dollars  ?  So  far  from  being  decently  depressed,  I  was  almost 
glad  to  have  lost  something  in  this  colossal  monument  of 
losses.  It  seemed  to  make  connection. 

Between  deep,  rocky,  precipitous  banks,  strongly  flows  the 
golden  "  king  of  rivers,  the  venerable  Tajo,"  almost  encircling 
the  granite  pedestal  of  the  city  and  spanned  by  ancient  bridges 
of  massy  stone,  with  battlemented,  Virgin-niched,  fierce  old 


274  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

gates.  And  above,  upon  its  rugged  height,  crumbling  hourly 
into  the  gritty  dust  that  stings  the  eye  and  scrapes  beneath  the 
foot,  lies  in  swirls  on  floor  and  pavement,  blows  on  every 
breeze  and  sifts  through  hair  and  clothing,  is  the  proud,  sullen,, 
forsaken  fortress  of  "  imperial  Toledo."  Still  it  is  a  vision 
of  turrets,  domes,  and  spires,  fretwork,  buttresses,  facades, 
but  all  so  desolate,  so  dreary,  isolated  in  that  parched  land- 
scape as  it  is  isolated  in  the  living  world,  that  one  approaches 
with  strangely  blended  feelings  of  awe,  repugnance,  and 
delight. 

On  we  go  over  the  Bridge  of  Alcantara,  wrought  aeons 
since  by  a  gang  of  angry  Titans  —  the  guidebooks  errone- 
ously attribute  it  to  the  Moors  and  Alfonso  the  Learned  — 
with  a  shuddering  glance  out  toward  the  ruins  of  feudal 
castles,  here  a  battlemented  keep  set  with  mighty  towers, 
there  a  great,  squat,  frowning  mass  of  stone,  the  very  sight 
of  which  might  have  crushed  a  prisoner's  heart.  Up,  straight 
up,  into  the  grim,  gray,  labyrinthine  city,  whose  zigzag  streets, 
often  narrowing  until  two  laden  donkeys,  meeting,  cannot  pass, 
so  twist  and  turn  that  it  is  impossible  on  entering  one  to  guess 
at  what  point  of  the  compass  we  will  come  out.  These 
crooked  ways,  paved  with  "  agony  stones,"  are  lined  with 
tall,  dark,  inhospitable  house  fronts,  whose  few  windows  are 
heavily  grated,  and  whose  huge  doors,  bristling  with  iron 
bosses,  are  furnished  with  fantastic  knockers  and  a  whole 
arsenal  of  bolts  and  chains. 

Gloomy  as  these  ponderous  structures  are,  every  step  dis- 
closes a  novelty  of  beauty,  —  a  chiselled  angel,  poised  for 
flight,  chased  escutcheons,  bas-reliefs,  toothed  arches,  medal- 
lions, weather-eaten  groups  of  saints  and  apostles  gossiping 


THK  KING  OK  TIIK  (ATSIKS 


Corpus  Christ!  in  Toledo  275 

in  their  scalloped  niches  about  the  degeneracy  of  the  times. 
The  Moors,  whose  architecture,  says  Becquer,  seems  the 
dream  of  a  Moslem  warrior  sleeping  after  battle  in  the  shadow 
of  a  palm,  have  left  their  mark  throughout  Toledo  in  the  airy 
elegance  of  the  traceries  magically  copied  from  cobwebs  and 
the  Milky  Way.  That  tragic  race,  the  Jews,  have  stamped  on 
the  walls  of  long-desecrated  synagogues  their  own  mysterious 
emblems.  And  Goths  and  Christian  knights  have  wrought 
their  very  likenesses  into  the  stern,  helmeted  heads  that  peer 
out  from  the  capitals  of  marvellous  columns  amid  the  stone 
grapes  and  pomegranates  most  fit  for  their  heroic  nourish- 
ment. But  all  is  in  decay.  Here  stands  a  broken-sceptred 
statue  turning  its  royal  back  on  a  ragged  vender  of  toasted 
garbanzos.  Even  the  image  of  Wamba  has  lost  its  royal  nose. 
You  may  traverse  whispering  cloisters  heaped  with  fallen 
crosses,  with  truant  tombstones,  and  severed  heads  and  limbs 
of  august  prophets.  Cast  aside  in  dusky  vaults  lie  broken 
shafts  of  rose-tinted  marbles  and  fragments  of  rare  carving  in 
whose  hollows  the  birds  of  the  air  once  built  their  nests. 
Through  the  tangle  of  flowers  and  shrubbery  that  chokes  the 
patios  gleam  the  rims  of  alabaster  urns  and  basins  of  jasper 
fountains.  Such  radiant  wings  and  faces  as  still  flash  out 
from  frieze  and  arch  and  column,  such  laughing  looks,  fresh 
with  a  dewy  brightness,  as  if  youth  and  springtime  were 
enchanted  in  the  stone  !  And  what  supreme  grace  and  truth 
of  artistry  in  all  this  bewildering  detail !  On  some  far-off 
day  of  the  golden  age,  when  ivory  and  agate  were  as  wax, 
when  cedar  and  larch  wood  yielded  like  their  own  soft  leaves, 
the  magician  must  have  pressed  upon  them  the  olive  leaf,  the 
acacia  spray,  the  baby's  foot,  that  have  left  these  perfect  traces. 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

And  how  did  mortal  hand  ever  achieve  the  intricate,  culling, 
unfolding,  blossoming  marvel  of  those  capitals  ?  And  who 
save  kings,  Wambas  and  Rodericks,  Sanchos,  Alfonsos,  and 
Fernandos,  should  mount  these  magnificent  stairways  ?  And 
what  have  those  staring  stdne  faces  above  that  antique  doorway 
Idoked  upon  to  turn  them  haggard  with  horror  ?  City  of 
ghosts  !  The  flesh  begins  to  creep.  But  here,  happily,  we 
are  arrived  in  the  Plaza  de  Zocodover,  where  Lazarillo  de 
Tormes  used  to  display  his  talents  as  town  crier,  and  in 
this  long-memoried  market-place,  with  its  arcaded  sides  and 
trampled  green,  may  pause  to  take  our  bearings. 

Evidently  the  procession  is  to  pass  here,  for  the  balconies, 
still  displaying  the  yellow  fronds  of  Palm  Sunday,  are  hung 
with  all  manner  of  draperies  —  clear  blue,  orange  with  silver 
fringes,  red  with  violet  bars,  white  with  saffron  scallops. 
Freed  from  sordid  cares  about  my  pocket,  I  give  myself  for 
a  little  to  the  spell  of  that  strange  scene.  Beyond  rise  the 
rich-hued  towers  of  the  Alcazar,  on  the  site  where  Romans, 
Visigoths,  Arabs,  the  Cid,  and  an  illustrious  line  of  Spanish 
monarchs  have  fortified  themselves  in  turn  ;  but  Time  at  last 
is  conqueror,  and  one  visits  the  dismantled  castle  only  to  for- 
get all  about  it  in  the  grandeur  of  the  view.  From  the  east 
side  of  the  Zocodov'er  soars  the  arch  on  whose  summit  used  to 
stand  the  Santisimo  Cr'isto  del  Sangre,  before  whom  the  Corpus 
train  did  reverence.  And  here  in  the  centre  blazed  that 
momentous  bonfire  which  was  to  settle  the  strife  between  the 
old  Toledan  liturgy  and  the  new  ritual  of  Rome ;  but  the 
impartial  elements  honored  both  the  Prayer  Books  placed 
upon  the  fagots,  the  wind  wafting  to  a  place  of  safety  the 
Roman  breviary,  while  the  flames  drew  back  from  the  other, 


Corpus  Christ!  in  Toledo  277 

with  the  result  that  the  primitive  rite  is  still  preserved  in  an 
especial  chapel  of  the  cathedral. 

A  glorious  plaza,  famed  by  Cervantes,  loved  by  Lope  de 
Vega,  but  now  how  dim  and  shabby  !  On  the  house-fronts 
once  so  gayly  colored,  the  greens  have  faded  to  yellows,  the 
reds  to  pinks,  and  the  pinks  to  browns.  The  awning  spread 
along  the  route  of  the  procession  is  fairly  checkered  with  a 
miscellany  of  patches.  I  pass  the  compliments  of  the  day 
with  a  smiling  peasant  woman,  whose  husband,  a  striking 
color-scheme  in  maroon  blanket,  azure  trousers,  russet  stock- 
ings, and  soiled  gray  sandals,  offers  me  his  seat  on  the  stone 
bench  beside  her.  But  I  am  bound  on  my  errand,  and  they 
bid  me  "  Go  with  God."  I  select  a  trusty  face  in  a  shop 
doorway  and  ask  if  I  can  rent  standing  room  in  the  balcony 
above.  Mine  honest  friend  puts  his  price  a  trifle  high  to  give 
him  a  margin  for  the  expected  bargaining,  but  I  scorn  to 
haggle  on  a  day  when  I  am  short  of  money,  and  merely 
stipulate,  with  true  Spanish  propriety,  that  no  gentlemen  shall 
be  admitted.  This  makes  an  excellent  impression  on  the 
proprietor,  who  shows  me  up  a  winding  stair  with  almost 
oppressive  politeness.  A  little  company  of  ladies,  with  lace 
mantillas  drooping  from  their  graceful  heads,  welcome  me 
with  that  courteous  cordiality  which  imparts  to  the  slightest 
intercourse  with  the  Spanish  people  (barring  pickpockets)  a 
flavor  of  fine  pleasure.  Because  I  am  the  last  arrival  and 
have  the  least  claim,  they  insist  on  giving  me  the  best  place 
on  the  best  balcony  and  are  untiring  in  their  explanations  of 
all  there  is  to  be  seen. 

The  procession  is  already  passing  —  civil  guards,  buglers, 
drummers,  flower  wreaths  borne  aloft,  crosses  of  silver  and 


278  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

crosses  of  gold,  silken  standards  wrought  with  cunning  em- 
broideries. But  now  there  come  a  sudden  darkness,  a  gust 
of  wind,  and  dash  of  rain.  The  ranks  of  cofradias  try  in 
vain  to  keep  their  candles  burning,  the  pupils  from  the  colleges 
of  the  friars,  with  shining  medals  hung  by  green  cords  about 
their  necks,  peep  roguishly  back  at  the  purple-stoled  dignitary 
in  a  white  wig,  over  whom  an  anxious  friend  from  the  street 
is  trying  to  hold  an  umbrella.  The  Jesuit  seminaristas  bear 
themselves  more  decorously,  the  tonsures  gleaming  like  silver 
coins  on  their  young  heads.  The  canons  lift  their  red  robes 
from  the  wet,  and  even  bishops  make  some  furtive  efforts 
to  protect  their  gold-threaded  chasubles.  Meanwhile  the 
people,  that  spectral  throng  of  witches,  serfs,  feudal  retainers, 
and  left-overs  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  press  closer  and 
closer,  audaciously  wrapping  themselves  from  the  rain  in  the 
rich  old  tapestries  of  France  and  Flanders,  which  have  been 
hung  along  both  sides  of  the  route  from  a  queer  framework 
of  emerald-bright  poles  and  bars.  The  dark,  wild,  supersti- 
tious faces,  massed  and  huddled  together,  peer  out  more  un- 
cannywise  than  ever  from  under  these  precious  stuffs  which 
brisk  soldiers,  with  green  feather  brushes  in  their  caps,  as  if 
to  enable  them  to  dust  themselves  off  at  short  notice,  are 
already  taking  down. 

All  the  church  bells  of  the  city  are  chiming  solemnly,  and 
the  splendid  custodia,  "  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  plate  in  the 
world,"  a  treasure  of  filigree  gold  and  jewels,  enshrining  the 
Host,  draws  near.  It  is  preceded  by  a  bevy  of  lovely  children, 
not  dressed,  as  at  Granada,  to  represent  angels,  but  as  knights 
of  chivalry.  Their  dainty  suits  of  red  and  blue,  slashed  and 
puffed  and  trimmed  with  lace,  flash  through  the  silvery  mist 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  279 

of  rain.  Motherly  voices  from  the  balconies  call  to  them  to 
carry  their  creamy  caps  upside  down  to  shield  the  clustered 
plumes.  Their  little  white  sandals  and  gaiters  splash  merrily 
through  the  mud. 

A  flamingo  gleam  across  the  slanting  rain  announces 
Cardinal  Sancha,  behind  whom  acolytes  uplift  a  thronelike 
chair  of  crimson  velvet  and  gold.  Then  follow  ranks  of 
taper-bearing  soldiers,  and  my  friends  in  the  balcony  call 
proudly  down  to  different  officers,  a  son,  a  husband,  a  blushing 
novio,  whom  they  present  to  me  then  and  there.  The  officers 
bow  up  and  I  bow  down,  while  at  this  very  moment  comes 
that  tinkling  of  silver  bells  which  would,  I  had  supposed, 
strike  all  Catholic  Spaniards  to  their  knees.  It  is  perhaps  too 
much  to  expect  the  people  below  to  kneel  in  the  puddles,  but 
the  vivacious  chatter  in  the  balconies  never  ceases,  and  the 
ladies  beside  me  do  not  even  cross  themselves. 

The  parade  proceeds,  a  gorgeous  group  in  wine-colored 
costume  carrying  great  silver  maces  before  the  civic  repre- 
sentation. The  governor  of  the  province  is  pointed  out  to  me 
as  a  count  of  high  degree,  but  in  the  instant  when  my  awed 
glance  falls  upon  him  he  gives  a  monstrous  gape  unbecoming 
even  to  nobility.  The  last  of  the  spruce  cadets,  who  close  the 
line,  have  hardly  passed  when  the  thrifty  housewife  beseeches 
our  aid  in  taking  in  out  of  the  rain  her  scarlet  balcony  hang- 
ing, which  proves  to  be  the  canopy  of  her  best  bed.  But  the 
sun  is  shining  forth  again  when  I  return  to  the  street  to 
follow  the  procession  into  the  cathedral. 

Already  this  gleam  of  fair  weather  has  filled  the  Calle  de 
Comercio  with  festive  senoritas,  arrayed  in  white  mantillas  and 
Manila  shawls  in  honor  of  the  bull-fight.  Shops  have  been 


280  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

promptly  opened  for  a  holiday  sale  of  the  Toledo  specialties 
—  arabesqued  swords  and  daggers,  every  variety  of  Damas- 
cened wares,  and  marchpane  in  form  of  mimic  hams,  fish, 
and  serpents.  The  Toledo  steel  was  famous  in  Shakespeare's 
day,  even  in  the  mouths  of  rustic  dandies,  whose  geographical 
education  had  been  neglected.  When  the  clever  rogue, 
Brainworm,  in  one  of  Jonson's  comedies,  would  sell  Stephen, 
the  "  country  gull,"  a  cheap  rapier,  he  urges,  "  'Tis  a  most 
pure  Toledo,"  and  Stephen  replies  according  to  his  folly,  "  I 
had  rather  it  were  a  Spaniard."  But  onward  is  the  glorious 
church,  with  its  symmetric  tower,  whose  spire  wears  a  three- 
fold crown  of  thorns.  The  exterior  walls  are  hung,  on  this 
one  day  of  the  year,  with  wondrous  tapestries  that  Queen 
Isabella  knew.  An  army  of  beggars  obstructs  the  crowd, 
which  presses  in,  wave  upon  wave,  through  the  deep,  rich 
portals  in  whose  ornamentation  whole  lifetimes  have  carved 
themselves  away. 

Within  this  sublime  temple,  unsurpassed  in  Gothic  art, 
where  every  pavement  slab  is  worn  by  knees  more  than  by 
footsteps,  where  every  starry  window  has  thrown  its  jewel 
lights  on  generations  of  believers,  one  would  almost  choose  to 
dwell  forever.  One  looks  half  enviously  at  recumbent  ala- 
baster bishops  and  kneeling  marble  knights,  even  at  dim  gro- 
tesques, who  have  rested  in  the  heart  of  that  grave  beauty,  in 
that  atmosphere  of  prayer  and  chant,  so  long.  Let  these 
stone  figures  troop  out  into  the  troubled  streets  and  toil  awhile, 
and  give  the  rest  of  us  a  chance  to  dream.  But  the  multitude, 
which  has  knelt  devoutly  while  Su  Majestad  was  being  borne 
into  the  Capilla  Mayor,  comes  pouring  down  the  nave  to 
salute  the  stone  on  which  —  ah  me  ! — on  which  the  Virgin 


Corpus  Christi  in  Toledo  281 

set  her  blessed  foot  December  18,  666,  when  she  alighted  in 
Toledo  cathedral  to  present  the  champion  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  St.  Ildefonso,  with  a  chasuble  of  celestial  tissue. 
The  gilded,  turreted  shrine  containing  that  consecrated  block 
towers  almost  to  the  height  of  the  nave.  A  grating  guards  it 
from  the  devout,  who  can  only  touch  it  with  their  finger  tips, 
which  then  they  kiss.  Hundreds,  with  reverend  looks,  stand 
waiting  their  turn  —  children,  peasants,  bull-fighters,  decorated 
officers,  refined  ladies,  men  of  cultured  faces.  The  sound  of 
kissing  comes  thick  and  fast.  Heresy  begins  to  beat  in  my 
blood. 

Not  all  that  heavenward  reach  of  columns  and  arches,  not 
that  multitudinous  charm  of  art,  can  rid  the  imagination  of  a 
granite  weight.  I  escape  for  a  while  to  the  purer  church 
without,  with  its  window-gold  of  sunshine  and  lapis-lazuli 
roof.  When  the  mighty  magnet  draws  me  back  again,  those 
majestic  aisles  are  empty,  save  for  a  tired  sacristan  or  two, 
and  the  silence  is  broken  only  by  a  monotone  of  alternate 
chanting,  from  where,  in  the  Capilla  Mayor,  two  priests 
keep  watch  with  El  Senor. 

"  He  will  be  here  all  the  afternoon,"  says  the  sacristan, 
"  and  nothing  can  be  shown  ;  but  if  you  will  come  back  to- 
morrow I  will  arrange  for  you  to  see  even  Our  Lady's  robes 
and  gems." 

Come  back  !  I  felt  myself  graying  to  a  shadow  already. 
Of  course  I  longed  to  see  again  that  marvellous  woodwork  of 
the  choir  stalls,  with  all  the  conquest  of  Granada  carved  amid 
columns  of  jasper  and  under  alabaster  canopies,  but  I  was 
smothered  in  a  multitude  of  ghosts.  They  crowded  from  every 
side,  —  nuns,  monks,  soldiers,  tyrants,  magnificent  arch- 


282  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

bishops,  the  martyred  Leocadia,  passionate  Roderick,  weeping 
Florinda,  grim  Count  Julian,  "my  Cid,"  Pedro  the  Cruel, 
those  five  thousand  Christian  nobles  and  burghers  of  Toledo, 
slain,  one  by  one,  at  the  treacherous  feast  of  Abderrahman, 
those  hordes  of  flaming  Jews  writhing  amid  the  Inquisition 
fagots.  I  had  kept  my  Corpus.  I  had  seen  the  greatest  of 
all  autos  sacramentales,  Calderon's  masterpiece,  "  Life  is  a 
Dream." 

"  On  a  single  one  of  the  Virgin's  gold-wrought  mantles," 

coaxed  the  sacristan,  "  are  eighty-five  thousand  large  pearls 

and   as    many  sapphires,    amethysts,    and    diamonds.     I    will 

^arrange  for  you  to  see  everything,  when  Our  Lord  is  gone 

away." 

But  no.  I  am  a  little  particular  about  treasures.  Since 
Toledo  has  lost  the  emerald  table  of  King  Solomon  and  that 
wondrous  copy  of  the  Psalms  written  upon  gold  leaf  in  a  fluid 
made  of  melted  rubies,  I  will  not  trouble  the  seven  canons  to 
unlock  the  seven  doors  of  the  cathedral  sacristy.  Let  the 
Madonna  enjoy  her  wealth  alone.  I  have  pesetas  enough  for 
my  ticket  to  Madrid. 


XIX 

THE  TERCENTENARY  OF  VELAZQUEZ 

"  It  is  a  sombre  and  a  weeping  sky 

That  lowers  above  thee  now,  unhappy  Spain  ; 

Thy  'scutcheon  proud  is  dashed  with  dimming  rain  j 
Uncertain  is  thy  path  and  deep  thy  sigh. 
All  that  .is  mortal  passes;  glories  die; 

This  hour  thy  destiny  allots  thee  pain  ; 

But  for  the  worker  of  thy  woes  remain 
Those  retributions  slowly  forged  on  high. 

"  Put  thou  thy  hope  in  God  ;  what  once  thou  wert 
Thou  yet  shall  be  by  labor  of  thy  sons 

Patient  and  true,  with  purpose  to  atone  ; 
And  though  the  laurels  of  the  loud-voiced  guns 
Are  not  with  us  to-day,  this  balms  our  hurt  — 
Cervantes  and  Velazquez  are  our  own." 

—  DUKE  OF  RIVAS  :   For  the  Tercentenary. 

THE  celebration,  as  planned,  was  comparatively  simple, 
but  enthusiasm  grew  with  what  it  fed  upon.     The 
Knights  of  Santiago  held  the  first  place  upon  the 
programme,  for  into  that  high  and  exclusive  order  the  artist 
had  won  entry  by  special  grace  of  Philip  IV.     Even  Spain 
has  been  affected  by  the  modern  movement  for  the  destruction 
of  traditions,  and   certain   erudite   meddlers,  who  have   been 
delving  in  the  State  archives,  declare  that  there  is  no  truth 


284  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

in  the  following  story,  which,  nevertheless,  everybody  has 
to  tell. 

The  legend  runs  that  Velazquez  became  a  knight  of 
St.  James  by  a  royal  compliment  to  the  painter  of  Las 
Memnas.  This  picture,  which  seems  no  picture,  but  life 
itself,  eternizes  a  single  instant  of  time  in  the  palace  of 
Philip  IV,  that  one  instant  before  the  fingers  of  the  little 
Infanta  have  curved  about  the  cup  presented  by  her  kneeling 
maid,  before  the  great,  tawny,  half-awakened  hound  has 
decided  to  growl  remonstrance  under  the  teasing  foot  of  the 
dwarf,  before  the  reflected  faces  of  king  and  queen  have 
glided  from  the  mirror,  that  fleeting  instant  while  yet  the 
courtier,  passing  down  the  gallery  into  the  garden,  turns  on 
the  threshold  for  a  farewell  smile,  while  yet  the  green  velvet 
sleeve  of  the  second  dwarf,  ugliest  of  all  pet  monsters,  brushes 
the  fair  silken  skirts  of  the  daintiest  of  ladies-in-waiting,  while 
yet  the  artist,  so  much  more  royal  than  royalty,  flashes  his 
dark-eyed  glance  upon  the  charming  group. 

But  if  Velazquez  looks  prouder  than  a  king,  Philip  proved 
himself  here  no  uninspired  painter.  Asked  if  he  found  the 
work  complete,  the  monarch  shook  his  head,  and,  catching  up 
the  brush,  marked  the  red  cross  of  St.  James  on  the  pictured 
breast  of  the  artist.  So  says  the  old  wives'  tale.  At  all 
events,  in  this  way  or  another,  the  honor  was  conferred,  with 
the  result  that  on  the  three  hundredth  birthday  of  Velazquez, 
June  6,  1899,  dukes  and  counts  and  marquises  flocked  to  the 
Church  of  Las  Senoras  Comendadoras,  where  the  antique  Grego- 
rian mass  was  chanted  for  the  repose  of  their  comrade's  soul. 

By  the  latest  theology,  the  "  Master  of  all  Good  Work- 
men "  would  not  have  waited  for  this  illustrious  requiem 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  285 

before  admitting  the  painter  to  "  an  aeon  or  two  "  of  rest,  but 
the  Knights  of  Santiago  have  not  yet  accepted  Kipling  as 
their  Pope. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  the  Sola  de  Velazquez 
was  inaugurated  in  the  Museo  del  Prado,  taking,  with  additions, 
the  room  formerly  known  as  the  Sala  de  la  Relna  Isabel,  long  the 
Salon  Carre  of  Madrid,  where  Raphaels,  Titians,  Del  Sartos, 
Diirers,  Van  Dycks,  Correggios,  and  Rembrandts  kept  the 
Spanish  Masters  company.  Portico  and  halls  were  adorned 
in  honor  of  the  occasion  ;  the  bust  of  Velazquez,  embowered 
in  laurels,  myrtles,  and  roses,  was  placed  midway  in  the  Long 
Gallery,  fronting  the  door  of  his  own  demesne;  but  the  crown 
of  the  fiesta  consisted  in  the  new  and  far  superior  arrange- 
ment of  his  pictures.  The  royal  family  and  chief  nobility, 
the  Ministers  of  Government,  the  Diplomatic  Corps,  and 
delegations  of  foreign  artists  made  a  brilliant  gathering.  The 
address,  pronounced  by  an  eminent  critic,  reviewed  what  are 
known  as  the  three  styles  of  Velazquez.  Never  was  art  lecture 
more  fortunate,  for  this  Museo,  holding  as  it  does  more  than 
half  the  extant  works  of  the  great  realist,  with  nearly  all  his 
masterpieces,  enabled  the  speaker  to  illustrate  every  point 
from  the  original  paintings.  A  rain  of  aristocratic  poems 
followed,  for  a  Spaniard  is  a  lyrist  born,  and  turns  from  prose 
to  verse  as  easily  as  he  changes  his  cuffs.  As  Monipodio  says, 
in  one  of  Cervantes'  "  Exemplary  Tales  "  :  "A  man  has  but  to 
roll  up  his  shirt-sleeves,  set  well  to  work,  and  he  may  turn  off 
a  couple  of  thousand  verses  in  the  snapping  of  a  pair  of  scis- 
sors." These  Dukes  of  Parnassus  and  Counts  of  Helicon  did 
homage  to  the  painter  in  graceful  stanzas,  not  without  many  an 
allusion  to  Spain's  troubled  present.  If  only,  as  one  sonneteer 


286  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

suggested,  the  soldiers  of  Las  Lanzas  had  marched  out  from 
their  great  gilt  frame  and  gone  against  the  foe !  A  pro- 
gramme of  old-time  music  was  rendered,  and  therewith  the 
Sala  de  Velazquez  was  declared  open. 

To  this,  as  to  all  galleries  and  monuments  under  State 
control,  the  public  was  invited  free  of  charge  for  the  week  to 
come.  The  response  was  appreciative,  gentility,  soldiery, 
ragamuffins,  bevies  of  schoolgirls  with  notebooks,  and  fami- 
ilies  of  foreigners  with  opera  glasses  grouping  themselves  in 
picturesque  variety,  day  after  day,  before  the  art  treasures  of 
Madrid,  while  beggars  sat  in  joyful  squads  on  the  steps  of  the 
museums,  collecting  the  fees  which  the  doorkeepers  refused. 

During  these  seven  days,  artistic  and  social  festivals  in 
honor  of  Velazquez  abounded,  not  only  in  Madrid,  but 
throughout  Spain.  Palma  must  needs  get  up,  with  photo- 
graphs and  the  like,  a  Velazquez  exposition,  and  Seville, 
insisting  on  her  mother  rights,  must  arrange  a  belated  funeral, 
with  mass  and  sermon  and  a  tomb  of  laurels  and  flowers, 
surmounted  by  brushes,  palette,  and  the  cloak  and  helmet  of 
the  Order  of  Santiago.  In  the  capital  the  Circulo  de  Bellas 
Artes  sumptuously  breakfasted  the  artists  from  abroad.  The 
dainties  were  spiced  with  speeches,  guitars,  ballet,  gypsy 
songs  and  dances,  congratulatory  telegrams,  and  a  letter  posted 
from  Parnassus  by  Don  Diego  himself.  Two  valuable  new 
books  on  Velazquez  suddenly  appeared  in  the  shop  windows, 
and  such  periodicals  as  La  Ilustracioh,  Blanco  y  Negro,  La  Vida 
Liter  aria,  and  El  Nuevo  Mundo  vied  with  one  another  in 
illustrated  numbers,  while  even  the  one-cent  dailies  came 
out  with  specials  devoted  to  Velazquez  biography  and  criti- 
cism. The  Academy  of  San  Fernando  rendered  a  musical 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  287 

programme  of  Velazquez  date,  the  Queen  Regent  issued  five 
hundred  invitations  to  an  orchestral  concert  in  the  Royal 
Palace,  and  there  was  talk,  which  failed  to  fructify,  of  a 
grand  masquerade  ball,  where  the  costumes  should  be  copied 
from  the  Velazquez  paintings  and  the  dances  should  be  those 
stepped  by  the  court  of  Philip  IV. 

The  closing  ceremony  of  the  week  was  the  unveiling  of 
the  new  statue  of  Velazquez.  Paris  owes  to  Fremiot  an 
equestrian  statue  of  the  painter,  who,  like  Shakespeare  in  his 
Paris  statue,  is  made  to  look  very  like  a  Frenchman,  but  the 
horse  is  of  the  most  spirited  Spanish  type.  A  younger  Velaz- 
quez may  be  seen  in  Seville,  at  home  among  the  orange  trees, 
and  the  Palacio  de  la  Eiblioteca  y  Museos  Nacionales  in  Madrid 
shows  a  statue  from  the  hand  of  Garcia.  Still  another,  an 
arrogant,  striding  figure,  was  standing  in  the  studio  of  Ben- 
lliure,  ready  for  its  journey  to  the  Paris  exposition.  The 
tercentenary  statue,  by  Marinas,  is  also  true  to  that  haughty 
look  of  Velazquez.  It  represents  him  seated,  brush  and 
palette  in  hand,  the  winds  lifting  from  his  ears  those  long, 
clustering  falls  of  hair,  as  if  to  let  him  hear  the  praises  of 
posterity.  Little  he  cares  for  praises  !  That  artist's  look 
sees  nothing  but  his  task. 

The  unveiling  took  place  late  on  Wednesday  afternoon, 
in  front  of  the  Museo  del  Prado,  where  the  statue  stands. 
A  turquoise  sky  and  a  light  breeze  put  all  the  world  in  happy 
humor.  The  long  facade  of  the  Museo  was  hung  with  beautiful 
tapestries.  Handsome  medallions  bore  the  names  of  painters 
associated  in  one  way  or  another  with  Velazquez  —  Herrera 
el  Viejo,  his  first  master  in  Seville;  Pacheco,  his  second 
Sevillian  teacher  and  his  father-in-law ;  Luis  Tristan  of 


288  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Toledo,  for  whom  he  had  an  enthusiastic  admiration ;  El 
Greco,  that  startling  mannerist,  whose  penetrating  portrai- 
ture of  faces,  even  whose  extraordinary  effects  in  coloring  were 
not  without  influence  on  the  younger  man;  Zurbaran,  his 
almost  exact  contemporary,  enamored  no  less  than  Velazquez 
himself  of  the  new  realism  emanating  from  the  great  and 
terrible  Ribera  ;  Murillo,  whose  developing  genius  the  favored 
Court  painter,  too  high-hearted  for  envy,  protected  and  en- 
couraged, and  Alonzo  Cano,  the  impetuous  artist  of  Granada, 
to  whom,  too,  Velazquez  was  friend  and  benefactor. 

Spanish  colors  and  escutcheons  were  everywhere.  In 
decorated  tribunes  sat  the  royal  family  and  the  choicest  of 
Madrid  society,  with  the  members  of  the  Circulo  de  Bellas 
Artes,  who  were  the  hosts  of  the  day,  and  with  distinguished 
guests  from  the  provinces  and  abroad.  Romero  Robledo,  as 
President  of  the  Society  of  Fine  Arts,  welcomed  the  Queen, 
closing  his  brief  address  with  the  following  words  :  "  Never, 
senora,  will  your  exalted  sentiments  be  able  to  blend  with 
those  of  the  Spanish  people  in  nobler  hour  than  this,  com- 
memorating him  who  is  forever  a  living  national  glory 
and  who  receives  enthusiastic  testimony  of  admiration  from  all 
the  civilized  world."  Their  Majesties  drew  upon  the  cords, 
the  two  silken  banners  parted,  and  the  statue  was  revealed  to  the 
applauding  multitude.  While  the  royal  group  congratulated 
the  sculptor,  the  ambassadors  of  Austria  and  Germany  laid 
magnificent  wreaths,  fashioned  with  a  due  regard  to  the 
colors  of  their  respective  nations,  at  the  feet  of  Velazquez. 
The  eminent  French  artists,  Carolus  Duran  and  Jean  Paul 
Laurens,  bore  a  crown  from  France  and  delighted  the 
audience  by  declaring  that  "  the  painter  of  the  Spanish  king 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  289 

was  himself  the  king  of  painters."  Nothing  since  the  war 
had  gladdened  Spain  more  than  the  presence  and  praises  of 
these  two  famous  Parisians ;  the  reverence  of  Madrid  for 
Paris  is  profound.  The  tributes  of  Rome  and  London  excited 
far  less  enthusiasm.  Still  more  wreaths,  and  more  and  more, 
were  deposited  by  a  procession  of  delegates  from  the  art 
societies  of  all  Spain,  headed  by  Seville,  the  bands  playing 
merrily  meanwhile,  until  that  stately  form  of  bronze  seemed 
to  rise  from  out  a  hill  of  laurels,  ribbons,  and  flowers. 

This  is  the  first  Velazquez  celebration  which  has  had  uni- 
versal recognition.  The  painter  was  hardly  known  to  Europe 
at  large  until  the  day  of  Fernando  VII,  who  was  induced  by 
his  art-loving  wife,  Isabel  of  Braganza,  to  send  the  pictures 
from  the  royal  palaces,  all  those  accumulated  treasures  of  the 
Austrian  monarchs,  to  the  empty  building,  designed  for  a  nat- 
ural history  museum,  in  the  Prado.  This  long,  low  edifice  is 
now  one  of  the  most  glorious  shrines  of  art  in  the  world.  It 
is  a  collection  of  masterpieces,  showing  the  splendors  that  are 
rather  than  the  processes  by  which  they  came  to  be.  There 
is  only  one  Fra  Angelico,  but  there  are  ten  Raphaels  and  four 
times  as  many  Titians.  In  the  Netherlands,  no  less  than  in 
Italy,  the  Spanish  sway  gathered  rich  spoils.  There  are  a 
score  of  Van  Dycks,  threescore  of  those  precious  little  can- 
vases by  Teniers,  while  as  for  Rubens,  he  blazes  in  some 
sixty-four  Christian  saints,  heathen  goddesses,  and  human  sin- 
ners, all  with  a  strong  family  resemblance.  But  although  the 
Italian  and  Flemish  schools  are  so  magnificently  represented, 
the  wealth  of  Spanish  painting  is  what  overwhelms  the  visitor. 
Here  are  four  rooms  filled  with  the  works  of  Goya  —  whose 
bones,  by  the  way,  arrived  in  Madrid  from  France  for  final 


290  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

sepulture  a  few  days  before  the  celebration.  Little  more  heed 
was  paid  to  this  advent  than  to  that  of  the  United  States 
ambassador,  who,  it  may  be  noted,  was  not  presented  to  the 
Queen  until  the  Velazquez  jubilee  was  well  over.  But  as  for 
Goya,  this  unnoised  entry  was  appropriate  enough,  for  he, 
whom  De  Amicis  has  called  "  the  last  flame-colored  flash  of 
Spanish  genius,"  used,  during  his  later  life,  to  make  the  long 
journey  from  Bordeaux  to  Madrid  every  week  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  gloat  upon  the  Sunday  bull-fight,  coming  and 
going  without  speech  or  handshake,  only  a  pair  of  fierce, 
bloodthirsty  eyes.  This  fiery  Aragonese  painted  bull-fights, 
battles,  executions,  and  Inquisition  tortures  with  blacks  that 
make  one  shudder  and  reds  that  make  one  sick.  He  painted 
the  brutal  side  of  pleasure  as  well  as  of  pain,  filling  broad  can- 
vases with  dancing,  feasting  peasants  —  canvases  that  smell 
of  wine  and  garlic,  and  all  but  send  out  a  roar  of  drunken  song 
and  laughter. 

Goya  lived  in  the  day  of  Charles  IV,  whose  court  painter 
he  was,  and  against  whom  this  natural  caricaturist  must  have 
borne  a  special  grudge,  so  sarcastic  are  his  portraits  of  the 
royal  family  ;  but  his  genius  is  allied  to  that  of  Velazquez's 
powerful  contemporary,  Ribera.  The  Museo  del  Prado  has 
abundant  material  for  a  Ribera  sala,  since  it  possesses  no  less 
than  fifty-eight  of  his  works,  but  the  official  put  in  charge  of 
it  would  probably  go  mad.  The  paintings  are  mercifully 
scattered  and,  well  for  such  of  us  as  may  be  disposed  to 
flight,  can  be  recognized  from  afar  by  their  dusks  and  pal- 
lors —  ascetic  faces  gleaming  out  from  sable  backgrounds, 
wasted  limbs  of  naked  saints  tracing  livid  lines  in  the  gloom 
of  caverns,  and,  against  an  atmosphere  dark  as  the  frown  of 


GYPSY  TENANTS  OF  AN  ARAB  PALACE 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  291 

God,  the  ghastly  flesh  of  tortured  martyrs,  and  dead  Christs 
drooping  stiffly  to  the  linen  winding-sheet.  One  is  appalled 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Long  Gallery  by  the  two  vast,  confront- 
ing canvases  of  Prometheus,  less  a  Titan  than  a  convulsion 
of  Titanic  agony,  and  of  Ixion,  crushed  not  only  beneath  the 
wheel,  but  under  that  cold,  tremendous  blackness  of  hell  made 
actual.  Far  down  one  side  of  the  hall  they  stretch,  those 
paintings  upon  paintings  of  torment,  emaciation,  the  half- 
crazed  visionary,  and  the  revolting  corpse.  But  there  is  no 
escape  from  Ribera,  he  who 

"  tainted 
His  brush  with  all  the  blood  of  all  the  sainted." 

Turning  back  to  the  Spanish  cabinets  that  open  from  the 
vestibule  we  come  upon  a  piteous  San  Sebastian,  the  blanched 
young  form  bound  fast  and  already  nailed  by  arrows  to  the 
ebon-hued  trunk  of  a  leafless  tree.  Descending  the  staircase 
to  the  Sala  de  Alfonso  XII,  we  must  pass  an  attenuated  old 
anchoress,  whose  sunken  face  and  praying  hands  have  the 
very  tint  of  the  skulls  that  form  the  only  ornaments,  almost 
the  only  furniture,  of  her  dreary  cave.  We  may  as  well 
brave  the  terrors  of  this  first  half  of  the  Long  Gallery,  where 
El  Greco's  livid  greens  will  at  least  divert  attention,  and 
where,  opposite  the  collection  of  Riberas,  wait  the  gracious 
Murillos  to  comfort  and  uplift. 

Yet  Ribera,  ruffian  though  he  was,  is  not  solely  and  ex- 
clusively a  nightmare  artist.  He  could  give  sweetest  and 
most  tranquil  color  when  he  chose,  as  his  "  Jacob's  Dream  " 
here  testifies,  with  the  dim  gold  of  its  angel-peopled  ladder; 
and  for  all  the  spirit  of  bigotry  that  clouds  his  work,  there  is 


292  Spanish    Highways  and  Byways 

Catholic  fervor  in  these  pictures  and  masterly  truthfulness  up 
to  the  point  where  the  senses  need  the  interpretation  of  the 
soul.  There  is  more  than  anatomy,  too,  in  these  starved 
old  saints ;  there  is  the  dread  of  judgment.  Ribera  depicts 
supernatural  terror,  where  Goya  shows  the  animal  shock  of 
death. 

Another  Spanish  phase  appears  in  Zurbaran.  In  his  most 
effective  work  we  have  not  Goya's  blood  color,  nor  Ribera's 
blacks,  nor  the  celestial  violets  of  Juan  de  Joanes,  but  the 
grays  of  the  monastic  renunciation,  the  twilight  that  is  as  far 
from  rapture  as  from  anguish.  His  gowned,  cowled,  corded 
figures  pass  before  the  eye  in  the  pale  tints  of  the  cloister. 
The  shadow  of  cathedral  walls  is  over  them.  The  Prado  has 
been  strangely  indifferent  to  Zurbaran,  who  is  far  more  fully 
represented  in  the  galleries  of  Andalusia;  but  it  has  in  its 
baker's  dozen  two  important  and  characteristic  works,  both 
visions  of  San  Pedro  Nolasco.  In  one  the  entranced  saint, 
whose  figure  might  be  carved  in  stone,  —  stone  on  which  ray 
from  stained-glass  window  never  fell,  —  gazes  upon  an  angel, 
whose  vesture,  crossed  by  a  dark  green  scarf,  is  flushed  with 
the  faintest  rose.  In  the  second  the  sombre  cell  is  illumi- 
nated for  an  instant  by  the  apparition  of  St.  Peter  the  Apostle, 
head  downward,  as  in  his  crucifixion,  his  naked  form  dazzling 
against  a  vague  redness  of  light  like  a  memory  of  pain. 

One  glance  at  a  wall  aglow  with  Madonna  blues  reminds 
us  that  Spanish  sacred  art  does  not  culminate  in  Ribera  nor  in 
Zurbaran.  The  Christian  faith  has  had  almost  as  pure, 
poetic,  and  spiritual  an  utterance  in  the  land  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion as  in  Italy  itself.  This  is  not  Murillo's  hour  ;  it  is  the 
triumph  of  Velazquez  and  the  realists  that  Spain  is  cele- 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  293 

brating  to-day  ;  but  none  the  less  it  is  a  joy  of  joys  to  walk 
by  the  Murillos  on  the  way  to  the  laurelled  bust  and  the 
crowded  sa/a.  These  are  the  pictures  that  are  rather  in 
heaven  than  earth.  Where  Mary,  divine  in  her  virginal 
loveliness,  is  not  upborne  among  the  golden  clouds,  the  radiant- 
plumed  angel  kneels  on  her  cottage  floor  and  the  wings  of  the 
descending  dove  beat  whiteness  through  the  air.  Here  is 
realism  and  more.  The  Mater  Dolorosa  has  those  luminous 
sea-blue  eyes  of  Andalusia,  but  they  tell  of  holy  tears.  The 
Crucified  is  no  mere  sufferer,  but  the  suffering  Son  of  God, 
and  the  crown  of  thorns,  while  dripping  blood,  haloes  his 
brows  with  the  redemption  of  the  world. 

The  genius  of  Velazquez  dwelt  not  above  the  earth,  but 
upon  it,  in  the  heart  of  its  most  brilliant  life.  He  was  no 
dreamer  of  dreams  ;  he  "  painted  the  thing  as  he  saw  it," 
and  with  what  sure  eyes  he  saw,  and  with  what  a  firm  and 
glowing  brush  he  painted  !  His  sola  surrounds  us  at  once 
with  an  atmosphere  of  brightness,  beauty,  elegance,  variety, 
delight.  His  work  is  so  superb,  so  supreme,  that,  like  perfect 
manners,  it  puts  even  the  humblest  of  us  at -our  ease.  We 
are  not  artists,  but  we  seem  to  understand  Velazquez. 

Of  course  we  don't.  No  knight  of  the  palette  would 
admit  it  for  an  instant.  What  can  the  rabble  know  of  the 
mysterious  compoundings  and  touchings  from  which  sprang 
these  splendors  of  color  that  outshine  the  centuries  ?  Young 
men  with  streaming  hair  are  continually  escorting  awed- 
looking  seiioras  about  the  room,  discoursing  with  dramatic 
vehemence  on  the  "periods"  of  the  Master's  work.  As  a 
youth  at  Seville,  they  explain,  Velazquez  had  of  necessity 
taken  religious  subjects,  for  the  Church  was  the  chief  patron 


294  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

of  art  in  Andalusia ;  but  his  natural  bent  even  then  displayed 
itself  in  tavern  studies  and  sketches  of  popular  types,  as  the 
"  Water-seller  of  Seville "  and  the  "  Old  Woman  Frying 
Eggs."  Of  his  early  religious  pieces  the  archbishop's  palace 
of  Seville  keeps  "San  Ildefonso  Receiving  the  Chasuble  from 
the  Hands  of  the  Virgin,"  and  the  National  Gallery  of  London 
secured  "  Christ  in  the  House  of  Martha,"  but  "The  Adora- 
tion of  the  Kings  "  hangs  here  at  our  right  as  we  enter  the 
Velazquez  sala.  A  little  stiff,  say  these  accomplished  critics, 
with  a  suggestion  of  the  dry  manner  of  his  master,  Pacheco, 
but  bear  you  in  mind  that  this  is  the  production  of  a  youth 
of  twenty.  It  is  obvious,  too,  that  Andalusians,  not  celestial 
visions,  served  him  as  models. 

A  longing  to  see  the  Tintorets  and  Titians,  those  starry 
treasures  of  the  dark  Escorial,  drew  him  to  Madrid  at  twenty- 
three.  Here  he  was  fortunate  in  finding  friends,  who  brought 
his  portraits  to  the  notice  of  Philip  IV,  a  dissolute  boy  ruled 
by  the  Count-Duke  Olivares.  Youth  inclines  to  youth. 
Velazquez  was  appointed  painter  to  the  king  at  the  same 
salary  as  that  paid  to  the  royal  barber,  and  henceforth  he  had 
no  care  in  life  but  to  paint.  And  how  he  painted  !  His  first 
portraits  of  Philip  show  a  blond  young  face,  with  high  brow, 
curled  mustache,  the  long  Hapsburg  chin,  and  eyes  that  hint 
strange  secrets.  Again  and  again  and  again  Velazquez  traced 
those  Austrian  features,  while  the  years  stamped  them  ever 
more  deeply  with  lines  of  pride  and  sin  —  a  tragic  face  in  the 
end  as  it  was  ill-omened  in  the  beginning.  But  the  master- 
piece of  Velazquez's  twenties  is  "  The  Drunkards,"  a  scene 
of  peasant  revelry  where  the  young  are  gloriously  tipsy  and 
the  old  are  on  the  point  of  maudlin  tears.  Here  it  is,  Los 


The  Tercentenary  of  Velazquez  295 

Borrachos,  farther  to  the  right.  In  looking  on  it  one  remem- 
bers that  a  contemporary  realist,  in  the  Protestant  island 
which  has  often  been  so  sharp  a  thorn  in  Spain's  side, 
likewise  crowned  the  achievement  of  his  springtime  by  a 
group  of  topers,  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff  and  their  immortal 
crew. 

Not  the  influence  of  Rubens,  who  spent  nine  months  in 
Spain  in  1628—29,  painting  like  the  wind,  nor  a  visit  to  the 
Holy  Land  of  Raphael  and  Michael  Angelo  could  make 
Velazquez  other  than  he  was.  This  "  Vulcan's  Forge," 
which  we  see  here,  painted  in  Italy,  is  mythological  only  in 
the  title.  Back  he  came  at  the  royal  summons,  to  paint  more 
portraits  —  Philip  over  and  over,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  half 
length,  full  length,  all  lengths  ;  the  winsome  Infante  Baltasar, 
as  a  toddling  baby  with  his  dwarf,  as  a  gallant  little  soldier, 
hunter,  horseman,  and  in  the  princely  dignity  of  fourteen, 
when  he  had  but  three  more  years  to  live ;  the  sad  French 
queen,  the  king's  brother,  the  magnificent  Olivares,  the 
sculptor  Montanes,  counts,  dukes,  buffoons.  Within  these 
twenty  years  Velazquez  produced  his  two  most  famous  works 
of  religious  tenor  —  "Christ  Bound  to  the  Column,"  a  "cap- 
tain jewel  "  of  the  London  National  Gallery,  and  that  majestic 
"  Crucifixion "  before  which  Spaniards  in  the  Prado  bare 
their  heads.  But  the  crown  of  this  period  is  Las  Lanzas,  or 
"  The  Surrender  of  Breda,"  which  holds  the  place  of  honor 
on  the  wall  fronting  the  door.  It  is  vivid  past  all  praise,  and 
nobler  than  any  battle  scene  in  its  beauty  of  generosity.  The 
influence  of  Italy  had  told  especially  on  Velazquez's  back- 
grounds. The  bright,  far  landscapes  opening  out  beyond  his 
portrayed  figures,  especially  those  on  horseback,  —  and  his 


296  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

horses  are  as  lifelike  as  his  dogs,  —  give  to  the  sola  an  exhila- 
rating effect  of  free  space  and  wide  horizons. 

In  1650  he  made  his  second  visit  to  Rome,  where  he  por- 
trayed Pope  Innocent  X.  Nine  years  of  glorious  work  in 
Spain  remained  to  him.  Still  he  painted  the  king,  even  at 
his  royal  prayers,  for  which  there  was  full  need,  and  the  young 
Austrian  queen,  who  had  succeeded  the  dead  mother  of  the 
dead  Baltasar.  On  that  happy  left-hand  wall  of  the  sola 
shines,  in  all  its  vigorous  grace,  the  "  Mercury  and  Argos," 
but  if  the  hundred  eyes  of  Argos  are  ready  to  close,  their  place 
is  supplied  by  the  terrible  scrutiny  of  a  row  of  portraits, 
embarrassing  the  boldest  of  us  out  of  note-taking.  How  those 
pairs  of  pursuing  black  eyes,  sage  and  keen  and  mocking, 
stare  the  starers  out  of  countenance !  The  series  of  pet 
dwarfs  is  here,  old  ^sop,  and  Menippus,  and  the  sly  buffoon, 
"  Don  Juan  of  Austria."  Of  these  two  wonder-works,  Las 
Meninas,  "  The  Maids  of  Honor,"  has  a  room  to  itself,  and 
thus  Las  Hilanderas,  "  The  Weavers,"  becomes  the  central 
magnet  of  this  returning  wall.  A  saint  picture  and  even  a 
coronation  of  the  Virgin  cannot  draw  the  crowds  from  before 
this  ultimate  triumph  of  the  actual  —  this  factory  interior, 
where  a  group  of  peasant  women  fashion  tapestries,  while  a 
broad  shaft  of  sunshine  works  miracles  in  color. 

And  this,  too,  is  Spanish.  Cervantes  is  as  true  a  facet  of 
many-sided  Spain  as  Calderon,  and  Velazquez  as  Murillo. 
With  all  the  national  propensity  to  emotion  and  exaggeration, 
Spaniards  are  a  truth-seeing  people.  The  popular  capias  are 
more  often  satiric  than  sentimental.  They  like  to  bite  through 
to  the  kernel  of  fact,  even  when  it  is  bitter.  Velazquez,  with 
his  rich  and  noble  realism,  is  of  legitimate  descent. 


XX 

CHORAL    GAMES    OF    SPANISH    CHILDREN 

"  Thought  and  affliction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness." 

—  SHAKESPEARE  :   Hamlet. 

ON  one  of  my  last  afternoons  in  Madrid,  I  visited  again  my 
early  haunts  in  the  Bucn  Retiro,  for  a  farewell  sight  of  the 
children  there  at  play.  After  all,  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
things  to  be  seen  in  Spain,  these  graceful,  passionate,  dra- 
matic little  creatures  dancing  in  tireless  circles,  and  piping  those 
songs  that  every  nina  knows,  without  being  able  to  tell  when 
or  where  or  from  whom  she  learned  them.  Only  very  small 
boys,  as  a  rule,  join  the  girls  in  these  fairy  rings,  though  occa- 
sionally I  found  a  troop  of  urchins  marching  to  a  lusty  chorus 
of  their  own.  One,  which  I  heard  in  Madrid,  but  whose 
parrots  are  more  suggestive  of  Seville,  runs  something  like 

this  :  — 

"  In  the  street  they  call  Toledo 

Is  a  famous  school  for  boys, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun  ; 
Where  all  we  lads  are  going 
With  a  most  heroic  noise, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 
Chundarata,  chun-chun. 
297 


298  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

"  And  the  parrots  on  their  perches, 

They  mock  us  as  we  go, 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun. 
'I  hate  my  school,'  whines  Polly, 

'  For  my  master  beats  me  so,' 
Chundarata,  chundarata, 

Chundarata,  chun-chun." 

Another,  which  came  to  me  in  fragments,  is  sung  in  play- 
ing soldier. 

"  The  Catalans  are  coming, 
Marching  two  by  two. 
All  who  hear  the  drumming 
Tiptoe  for  a  view. 

Ay,  ay  ! 

Tiptoe  for  a  view. 
Red  and  yellow  banners, 
Pennies  very  few. 

Ay,  ay  ! 
Pennies  very  few. 

"  Red  and  yellow  banners  ! 

The  Moon  comes  out  to  see. 
If  moons  had  better  manners, 
She'd  take  me  on  her  knee. 

Ay,  ay  ! 

Take  me  on  her  knee. 
She  peeps  through  purple  shutters, 
Would  I  were  tall  as  she  ! 

Ay,  ay  ! 
Would  I  were  tall  as  she  ! 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          299 

"  Soldiers  need,  not  learn  letters, 

Nor  any  schooly  thing, 
But  unless  they  mind  their  betters, 
In  golden  chains  they'll  swing. 

Ay,  ay  ! 

In  golden  chains  they'll  swing. 
Or  sit  in  silver  fetters, 
Presents  from  the  King. 

Ay,  ay  ! 
Presents  from  the  King." 

This  ironic  touch,  so  characteristically  Spanish,  reappears 
in  many  of  the  games,  as  in  A  La  Limon,  known  throughout 
the  Peninsula  and  the  Antilles.  I  should  expect  to  find  it, 
too,  in  corners  of  Mexico,  South  America,  the  Philippines, 
wherever  the  Spanish  oppressor  has  trod  and  the  oppressor's 
children  have  sported  in  the  sun.  The  little  players,  ranged 
in  two  rows,  each  row  hand  in  hand,  dance  the  one  toward 
the  other  and  retreat,  singing  responsively.  With  their  last 
couplet,  the  children  of  the  first  line  raise  their  arms,  forming 
arches,  and  the  children  of  the  second  line,  letting  go  hands, 
dance  under  these  arches  as  they  respond. 

1 .  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 

All  broken  is  our  bright  fountain. 

2.  *'  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon! 
Give  orders  to  have  it  mended. 

1.  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon! 
We  haven't  a  bit  of  money. 

2.  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 
But  we  have  money  in  plenty. 


300  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

1.  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 
What  kind  of  money  may  yours  be  ? 

2.  '«  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 
Oh,  ours  is  money  of  eggshells. 

1 .  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 
An  arch  for  the  lords  and  ladies. 

2.  "  A  la  limon,  a  la  limon  ! 
Right  merrily  we  pass  under." 

Another  lyric  dialogue,  whose  fun  is  spent  on  the  lean 
purses  of  students  and  the  happy-go-lucky  life  of  Andalusia, 
must  have  originated  since  the  overthrow,  in  1892,  of  the 
leaning  tower  of  Saragossa.  The  stanzas  are  sung  alternately 
by  two  rows  of  children,  advancing  toward  each  other  and 
retreating  with  a  dancing  step. 

1.  "In  Saragossa 

—  Oh,  what  a  pity !  — 
Has  fallen  the  tower, 
Pride  of  the  city. 

2.  "  Fell  it  by  tempest, 

Fairies  or  witches, 

The  students  will  raise  it, 

For  students  have  riches. 

1.  "  Call  on  the  students, 

Call  louder  and  louder! 
They've  only  two  coppers 
To  buy  them  a  chowder. 

2 .  ' '  Chowder  of  students 

Is  sweeter  than  honey, 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          301 

But  the  gay  Andalusians 
Have  plenty  of  money. 

1.  "The  gay  Andalusians 

Have  fiddle  and  ballad, 
But  only  two  coppers 
To  buy  them  a  salad. 

2.  "In  Saragossa 

—  Oh,  what  a  pity !  — 
Has  fallen  the  tower, 
Pride  of  the  city." 

Unchildlike  innuendoes  pervade  that  curious  game  of 
many  variants  in  which  the  priest  and  abbess  play  a  leading 
part.  Two  children  are  chosen  for  these  dignitaries,  while 
the  others  call  out  the  names  of  such  flowers,  fruits,  or  vege- 
tables as  each  may  decide  to  personate.  "  I'm  a  cabbage." 
"  I'm  a  jasmine."  "  I'm  a  cherry."  Then  the  little  sinners 
kneel  in  a  circle,  crying  :  — 

"  Through  the  door,  up  the  stairs, 
On  the  floor,  say  your  prayers!  " 

and  chant  some  childish  gibberish,  during  which  no  one  must 
laugh  on  pain  of  a  forfeit.      After  this,  all  sing  :  — 

"The  house  of  the  priest  it  cracked  like  a  cup. 
Half  fell  down  and  half  stood  up. 
Sir  Priest,  Sir  Priest,  now  tell  us  aright, 
In  whose  house  did  you  sleep  last  night  ? 

Priest.     With  the  rose  slept  I. 
Rose.  Fie,  O  fie  ! 

I  never  saw  your  tonsured  head. 
Priest.     Then  with  whom  did  you  make  your  bed  ? 


302  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Rose.  With  the  Pink. 

Pink.  I  should  think! 

I  never  saw  your  petals  red. 

Rose.        Then  with  whom  did  you  make  your  bed  ? 
Pink.  With  the  lily. 

Lily.  Don't  be  silly! 

I  never  heard  your  fragrant  tread. 
Pink.       Then  with  whom  did  you  make  your  bed  ? 
Lily.  With  the  priest. 

Priest.  Little  beast  ! 

If  I  went  near  you,  may  I  fall  dead ! 
Lily.        Then  with  whom  did  you  make  your  bed  ? 
Priest.  With  the  abbess,  I. 

Abbess.  Oh,  you  lie!" 

But  this  seems  to  be  the  conclusion  of  the  game. 

The  most  of  these  choral  songs,  however,  are  sweet  and 
innocent,  concerned  with  the  natural  interests  of  childhood, 
as  this :  — 

"The  shepherdess  rose  lightly 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
The  shepherdess  rose  lightly 

From  off  her  heather  seat  —  O. 

"  Her  goats  went  leaping  homeward, 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
Her  goats  went  leaping  homeward 
On  nimble  little  feet  —  O. 

«« With  strong  young  hands  she  milked  them, 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
With  strong  young  hands  she  milked  them 
And  made  a  cheese  for  treat  —  O. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          303 

"The  kitty  watched  and  wondered, 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
The  kitty  crept  and  pondered 
If  it  were  good  to  eat  —  O. 

"The  kitty  sprang  upon  it, 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
The  kitty  sprang  upon  it 

And  made  a  wreck  complete  —  O. 

"Scat,  scat,  you  naughty  kitty  ! 

Laran  —  laran  —  larito, 
Scat,  scat,  you  naughty  kitty! 

Are  stolen  cheeses  sweet  —  O  ?  " 

The  baby  girls  have  a  song  of  their  own,  which,  as  a 
blending  of  doll-play,  gymnastics,  music,  mathematics,  and 
religion,  leaves  little  to  be  desired. 

"  Oh,  I  have  a  dolly,  and  she  is  dressed  in  blue, 
With  a  fluff  of  satin  on  her  white  silk  shoe, 
And  a  lace  mantilla  to  make  my  dolly  gay, 
When  I  take  her  dancing  this  way,  this  way,  this  way. 

[Dances  Dolly  in  time  to  the  music. 

"  2  and  2  are  4,  4  and  2  are  6, 
6  and  2  are  8,  and  8  is  16, 
And  8  is  24,  and  8  is  32! 

Thirty-two  !     Thirty-two  ! 
Blessed  souls,  I  kneel  to  you.  [ Kneels. 

"  When  she  goes  out  walking  in  her  Manila  shawl, 
My  Andalusian  dolly  is  quite  the  queen  of  all. 
Gypsies,  dukes,  and  candy-men  bow  down  in  a  row, 
While  my  dolly  fans  herself  so  and  so  and  so. 

[Fans  Dolly  in  time  to  the  music. 


304  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

"  2  and  2  are  4,  4  and  2  are  6, 
6  and  2  are  8,  and  8  is  16, 
And  8  is  24,  and  8  is  24  ! 

Twenty-four  !     Twenty-four  ! 
Blessed  souls,  I  rise  once  more." 

They  have  a  number  of  bird-games,  through  which  they 
flit  and  flutter  with  an  airy  grace  that  wings  could  hardly 
better.  In  one,  the  children  form  a  circle,  with  "  the  little 
bird  Pinta "  in  the  centre.  The  chorus,  dancing  lightly 
around  her,  sings  the  first  stanza,  and  Pinta,  while  passing 
about  the  circle  to  make  her  choice,  sings  the  rest,  with  the 
suggested  action.  The  child  chosen  becomes  Pinta  in  turn. 

Chorus,    "  The  little  bird  Pinta  was  poising 

On  a  scented  green  lemon-tree  spray. 
She  picked  the  leaf  and  the  blossom, 
And  chanted  a  roundelay. 

Pinta.  "  Song  in  the  land  ! 

While  April  is  yet  a  newcomer, 
O  mate  of  my  summer, 
Give  to  me  a  hand  now, 
Both  hands  I  seek,  O  ! 
Take  a  Spanish  kiss,  now, 
On  the  rosy  cheek,  O  !  " 

Equally  pretty  and  simple  is  the  Andalusian  play  of  "  Little 
White  Pigeons."  The  children  form  in  two  rows,  which  face 
each  other  some  ten  or  twelve  yards  apart.  One  row  sings 
the  first  stanza,  dancing  forward  and  slipping  under  the 
"  golden  arches  "  made  by  the  lifted  arms  of  the  second  row. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          305 

The  second  row  sings  and  dances  in  turn,  passing  under  the 
"  silver  arches  "  to  Granada. 

i.     "  Little  white  pigeons 

Are  dreaming  of"  Seville, 
Sun  in  the  palm  tree, 

Roses  and  revel. 
Lift  up  the  arches, 

Gold  as  the  weather. 
Little  white  pigeons 

Come  flying  together. 

2.    "  Little  white  pigeons 

Dream  of  Granada, 
Glistening  snows  on 

Sierra  Nevada. 
Lift  up  the  arches, 

Silver  as  fountains. 
Little  white  pigeons 

Fly  to  the  mountains." 

The  Spanish  form  of  "  Blindman's  Buff"  begins  with  "  giv- 
ing the  pebble  "  to  determine  who  shall  be  the  Blind  Hen.  A 
child  shuts  in  one  hand  the  pebble  and  then  presents  both  little 
fists  to  the  other  children  passing  in  file.  Each,  while  all  sing 
the  first  stanza  given  below,  softly  touches  first  one  of  the 
hands,  then  the  other,  and  finally  slaps  the  one  chosen.  If 
this  is  empty,  she  passes  on.  If  it  holds  the  pebble,  she  must 
take  it  and  be  the  one  to  offer  the  hands.  The  child  who 
finally  remains  with  the  pebble  in  her  possession,  after  all 
have  passed,  is  the  Blind  Hen.  As  the  game  goes  on,  the 
children  tease  the  Blind  Hen,  who,  of  course,  is  trying  to 
catch  them,  by  singing  the  second  stanza  given  below. 
x 


306  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 


i 

«  Pebble,  O  pebble  ! 
Where  may  it  be  ? 
Pebble,  O  pebble  ! 
Come  not  to  me  ! 
Tell  me,  my  mother, 
Which  hand  to  choose. 
This  or  the  other  ? 
That  I  refuse, 
This  hand  I  choose. 


"  She's  lost  her  thimble, 
Little  Blind  Hen. 
Better  be  nimble  ! 
Try  it  again  ! 
Who'll  bring  a  taper 
For  the  Blind  Hen  ? 
Scamper  and  caper  ! 
Try  it  again  ! 
Try  it  again  ! ' ' 

Other  games  as  well  known  to  American  children  as 
"  Blindman's  Buff"  are  played  by  little  Spaniards.  They  under- 
stand how  to  make  the  "  hand-chair  "  and  "  drop  the  button," 
only  their  button  is  usually  a  ring.  "  Hide  the  Handkerchief" 
carries  with  it  the  familiar  cries  of  hot  and  cold,  but  our  "  Puss 
in  the  Corner  "  becomes  "  A  Cottage  to  Rent." 

"  '  Cottage  to  rent  ? ' 

'  Try  the  other  side, 
You  see  that  this 
Is  occupied.' *' 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          307 
In  religious  Seville  the  dialogue  runs  :  — 

" '  A  candle  here  ?  ' 
' Over  there.' 
' A  candle  here  ? ' 
'Otherwhere.' 

"  '  Candle,  a  candle  ! ' 

'  Loss  on  loss. ' 
'  Where  is  light  ? ' 

'In  the  Holy  Cross.'" 

For  all  these  games,  common  to  childhood  the  world  over, 
have  a  rhyming  element  in  the  Peninsula,  where,  indeed,  the 
ordinary  intercourse  of  children  often  carries  verses  with  it. 
P'or  instance,  our  youngsters  are  content  with  cries  of  "  Tell- 
tale !  "  and  "  Indian-giver  !  "  but  under  similar  provocation  the 
fierce  little  nurslings  of  Catholic  Spain  will  sing :  — 

"Tell-tale!     Tell-tale! 

In  hell  you'll  be  served  right, 
All  day  fed  on  mouldy  bread, 

And  pounded  all  the  night  ! ' ' 

The  other  baby-curse  is  to  the  same  effect :  — 

"He  who  gives  and  takes  again, 
Long  in  hell  may  he  remain  ! 
He  who  gives  and  takes  once  more, 
May  we  hear  him  beat  on  the  Devil's  door  !" 

The  Spanish  form  of  tag  has  a  touch  of  mythological  grace. 
One  child,  chosen  by  lot,  is  the  Moon,  and  must  keep  within 
the  shadow.  The  others,  Morning-stars,  are  safe  only  in  the 
lighted  spaces.  The  game  is  for  the  Morning-stars  to  run 


308  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

into  the  shadow,  daring  the  Moon,  who,  if  successful  in  catch- 
ing one,  becomes  a  Morning-star  in  turn,  and  passes  out  into 
the  light,  leaving  the  one  caught  to  act  the  part  of  Moon. 
As  the  Morning-stars  run  in  and  out  of  the  Moon's  domain, 
they  sing  over  and  over  the  following  stanza :  — 

"  O  the  Moon  and  the  Morning-stars  ! 

0  the  Moon  and  the  Morning-stars ! 

Who  dares  to  tread  —  O 
Within  the  shadow  ? ' ' 

Even  in  swinging,  the  little  girls  who  push  carry  on  a  musi- 
cal dialogue  with  the  happy  holder  of  the  seat. 

"  '  Say  good-day,  say  good-day 
To  Miss  Fannie  Fly-away  ! 
At  the  door  the  guests  are  met, 
But  the  table  is  not  set. 
Put  the  stew  upon  the  fire. 
Higher,  higher,  higher,  higher  ! 
Now  come  down,  down,  down,  down, 
Or  the  dinner  will  all  burn  brown. 
Soup  and  bread  !  soup  and  bread  ! 

1  know  a  plot  of  roses  red, 
Red  as  any  hero's  sword, 

Or  the  blood  of  our  Holy  Lord. 

Where  art  thou,  on  the  wing  ? ' 

'No,  I'm  sitting  in  the  swing.' 

'  Who' re  thy  playmates  way  up  there  ? ' 

'  Swallows  skimming  through  the  air. ' 

'  Down,  come  down  !     The  stew  will  burn. 

Let  the  rest  of  us  have  a  turn.'  " 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          309 

In  playing  "  Hide  and  Seek,"  the  seeker  must  first  sit  in  a 
drooping  attitude  with  covered  eyes,  while  the  others  stand 
about  and  threaten  to  strike  him  if  he  peeps  :  — 

"  Oil-cruet  !     Don't  do  it  !     Ras  con  ras  ! 
Pepper-pot  ?      Peep  not  !      Ras  con  ras  !  ' ' 

The  menacing  little  fists  are  then  suddenly  withdrawn. 

"  No,  no!     Not  a  blow! 
But  a  pinch  on  the  arm  will  do  no  harm. 
Now  let  the  birdies  take  alarm  ! " 

And  off  scamper  the  hiders  to  their  chosen  nooks.  When 
they  are  safely  tucked  away,  the  indispensable  Mother, 
standing  by,  sings  to  the  seeker  that  stanza  which  is  his  signal 

for  the  start :  — 

"  My  little  birds  of  the  mountain 

Forth  from  the  cage  are  flown. 
My  little  birds  of  the  mountain 
Have  left  me  all  alone." 

Spanish  forfeit  games  are  numerous  and  ingenious.  In  one 
of  these,  called  "  The  Toilet,"  the  players  take  the  names  of 
Mirror,  Brush,  Comb,  Towel,  Soap,  and  other  essentials,  includ- 
ing Jesus,  Devil,  and  Man  Alive,  these  last  for  exclamatory 
purposes.  As  each  is  mentioned  by  the  leader  of  the  game, 
he  must  rise  instantly,  on  pain  of  forfeit,  no  matter  how  fast 
the  speaker  may  be  rattling  on  :  "  Jesus  !  When  will  that 
devil  of  a  maid  bring  me  my  powder  and  perfumes  ?  "  Charac- 
teristic titles  of  other  forfeit  games  are,  "  The  Key  of  Rome," 
"  The  Fan,"  "  The  Fountain,"  "  I  Saw  my  Love  Last  Night." 
The  sentences  vary  from  such  gentle  penalties  as  "  The  Caress 


Jio  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

of  Cadiz  "  to  the  predicament  of  putting  three  feet  on   the 
wall  at  once. 

The  choral  verses  are  often  mere  nonsense. 

"  Pipe  away!  pipe  away! 
Let  us  play  a  little  play! 
What  will  we  play  ? 
We'll  cut  our  hands  away. 
Who  cut  them,  who  ? 
Rain  from  out  the  blue. 
Where  is  the  rain  ? 
Hens  drank  it  up  again. 
Hens  ?     And  where  are  they  ? 
Gone  their  eggs  to  lay. 
Who  will  eat  them  up  ? 
Friars  when  they  sup. 
What  do  friars  do  ? 
Sing  '  gori-gori-goo. '  ' 

Watching  Spanish  children,  one  may  see  two  little  girls, 
say  White  Rose  and  Sweetness,  fly  out  into  an  open  space, 
where  White  Rose  carefully  places  the  tips  of  her  small  shoes 
in  touch  with  those  of  Sweetness.  Then  they  clasp  hands, 
fling  their  little  bodies  as  far  back  as  these  conditions  permit, 
and  whirl  round  and  round,  singing  lustily  —  until  they  are 
overcome  by  giddiness  —  the  following  rigmarole,  or  one  of 
its  variants  :  — 

"Titirinela,  if  you  please! 

Titirinela,  bread  and  cheese: 
'  What  is  your  father's  worshipful  name  ?  ' 
'Sir  Red-pepper,  who  kisses  your  hands.' 
'  And  how  does  he  call  his  beautiful  dame  ? ' 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          311 

'Lady  Cinnamon,  at  your  commands.' 
Titirinela,  toe  to  toe! 
Titirinela,  round  we  go!" 

Even  in  some  of  their  prettiest  games  the  verses  have  a 
childish  incoherence.  Some  dozen  little  girls  form  a  circle, 
for  instance,  with  the  Butterfly  in  the  centre.  They  lift  her 
dress-skirt  by  the  border,  and  hold  it  outspread  about  her. 
Another  child,  on  the  outside,  runs  around  and  around  the 
ring,  singing :  — 

«'  Who  are  these  chatterers  ? 

Oh,  such  a  number! 
Not  by  day  nor  by  night 

Do  they  let  me  slumber. 
They're  daughters  of  the  Moorish  king, 

Who  search  the  garden-close 
For  lovely  Lady  Ana, 

The  sweetest  thing  that  grows. 
She's  opening  the  jasmine 

And  shutting  up  the  rose." 

Then  the  children  suddenly  lift  their  hands,  which  are 
holding  Butterfly's  frock,  so  as  to  envelop  her  head  in  the 
folds.  The  little  singer  outside  continues  :  — 

"Butterfly,  butterfly, 

Dressed  in  rose-petals! 
Is  it  on  candle-flame 

Butterfly  settles  ? 
How  many  shirts 

Have  you  woven  of  rain  ? 
Weave  me  another 

Ere  I  call  you  again." 


ji2  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

These  songs  are  repeated  seven  times.    Then  conies  an  jther 

stanza  :  — 

"  Now  that  Lady  Ana 

Walks  in  garden  sweet, 
Gathering  the  roses 

Whose  dew  is  on  her  feet, 
Butterfly,  butterfly, 

Can  you  catch  us  ?     Try  it,  try ! ' ' 

With  this  the  circle  breaks  and  scatters,  while  Butterfly, 
blinded  as  she  is  by  the  folds  of  her  own  skirt  wrapped  about 
her  head,  does  her  best  to  overtake  some  one,  who  shall  then 
become  her  successor. 

Many  of  the  games  are  simplicity  itself.  Often  the  play 
is  merely  a  circle  dance,  sometimes  ending  in  a  sudden  kneel- 
ing or  sitting  on  the  ground.  One  of  the  songs  accompany- 
ing this  dance  runs  :  — 

"  Potatoes  and  salt  must  little  folks  eat, 

While  the  grown-up  people  dine 
Off"  lemons  and  chestnuts  and  oranges  sweet, 

With  cocoanut  milk  for  wine. 
On  the  ground  do  we  take  our  seat, 

We're  at  your  feet,  we're  at  your  feet." 

Sometimes  a  line  of  children  will  form  across  the  street 
and  run,  hand  in  hand,  down  its  length,  singing: — ,. 

"  We  have  closed  the  street 
And  no  one  may  pass, 
Only  my  grandpa 
Leading  his  ass 
Laden  with  oranges 


Choral   Games  of  Spanish  Children          313 

Fresh  from  the  trees. 
Tilin  !     Tilin  ! 

Down  on  our  knees  ! 
Tilin  !     Tilin  !     Tilin  !     Tilin  ! 
The  holy  bell  of  San  Agustin  ! " 

A  play  for  four  weans,  training  them  early  to  the  "  eternal 
Spanish  contradiction,"  consists  in  holding  a  handkerchief  by 
its  four  corners,  while  one  of  them  sings  :  — 

"  Pull  and  slacken  ! 
I've  lost  my  treasure  store. 

Pull  and  slacken  ! 
I'm  going  to  earn  some  more. 
Slacken!" 

And  at  this,  the  other  three  children  must  pull,  on  pain  of 
forfeit,  whereas  if  the  word  is  pull,  their  business  is  to  slacken. 
They  have  a  grasshopper  game,  where  they  jump    about 
with  their  hands  clasped  under  their  knees,  singing :  — 

"  Grasshopper  sent  me  an  invitation 
To  come  and  share  his  occupation. 
Grasshopper  dear,  how  could  I  say  no  ? 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper,  here  I  go  !  " 

In  much  the  same  fashion  they  play  "Turkey,"  gobbling  as 
they  hop. 

I  never  found  them  "  playing  house "  precisely  after  the 
manner  of  our  own  little  girls,  but  there  are  many  variants 
for  the  dialogue  and  songs  in  their  game  of  "  Washer- 
woman." The  Mother  says :  "  Mariquilla,  I'm  going  out 
to  the  river  to  wash.  While  I  am  gone,  you  must  sweep 
and  tidy  up  the  house." 


314  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

"  Bueno,  madre." 

But  no  sooner  is  the  Mother  out  of  sight  than  naughty 
Mariquilla  begins  to  frisk  for  joy,  singing  :  — 

"  Mother  has  gone  to  wash. 

Mother' 11  be  gone  all  day. 
Now  can  Mariquilla 

Laugh  and  dance  and  play." 

But  the  Mother  returns  so  suddenly  that  Mariquilla  sees  her 
barely  in  time  to  begin  a  vigorous  sweeping. 

•<  '  What  hast  been  doing,  Mary  ?  ' 

'  Sweeping  with  broom  of  brier.' 
«  A  friar  saw  thee  playing. ' 

'  He  was  a  lying  friar. ' 
•  A  holy  friar  tell  a  lie  !  ' 

'  He  lied  and  so  do  you.' 
'  Come  hither,  Mary  of  my  heart, 

'  And  I'll  beat  thee  black  and  blue.'  " 

After  this  lively  exercise,  the  washerwoman  goes  away 
again,  charging  Mariquilla  to  churn  the  butter,  then  to  knead 
the  bread,  then  to  set  the  table,  but  always  with  the  same  dis- 
astrous results.  The  Mother  finally  condemns  her  to  a  dinner 
of  bread  and  bitters,  but  Mariquilla  makes  a  point  of  under- 
standing her  to  say  bread  and  honey,  and  shares  this  sweetness 
with  her  sympathetic  mates  who  form  the  circle.  This  time 
the  beating  is  so  severe  that  the  children  of  the  ring  raise 
their  arms  and  let  Mariquilla  dodge  freely  in  and  out,  while 
they  do  all  they  can  to  trip  and  hinder  the  irate  washerwoman 
in  her  pursuit. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          315 

There  is  another  washing  game  of  more  romantic  sort,  the 
chorus  being  :  — ' 

"  '  Bright  is  the  fountain, 

When  skies  are  blue. 
Who  washed  my  handkerchief? 

Tell  me  true!' 
'  Three  mountain  maidens 

Of  laughing  look. 
White  went  their  feet 

In  the  running  brook. 
One  threw  in  roses, 

And  jasmine  one. 
One  spread  thy  handkerchief 

In  the  sun.'  " 

Spanish  children  "  play  store,"  of  course,  but  they  are  such 
dramatic  little  creatures  that  they  need  no  broken  ware  for 
their  merchandise.  A  row  of  them  will  squat  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  street,  clasp  their  hands  under  the  hollow 
of  their  knees,  and  crook  out  their  arms  for  "  handles." 
Then  a  customer  wanders  by,  asking,  "  Who  sells  honey- 
jars  ?"  The  merchant  disrespectfully  replies,  "That  do  I, 
Uncle  of  the  Torn  Trousers."  The  shabby  customer  an- 
swers with  Castilian  dignity,  "  If  my  trousers  are  torn,  my 
wife  will  mend  them."  The  merchant  then  opens  negotia- 
tions. "  Will  you  buy  a  little  jar  of  honey  ?  "  "  What's 
your  price  ?  "  The  merchant  is  not  exorbitant.  "  A  flea 
and  a  louse."  The  probabilities  are,  unhappily,  that  the  cus- 
tomer has  these  commodities  about  him,  and  he  inclines, 
though  cautiously,  toward  the  bargain. 

"  Your  little  honey-jars  are  good  ?  " 


316  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

"  Very  good." 

"  Do  they  weigh  much  ?  " 

"  Let's  see." 

So  they  pick  up  an  hilarious  little  honey-jar  by  its  handles 
and  tug  it  away  between  them,  not  letting  it  touch  the 
ground,  to  the  sidewalk.  Here  the  merchant  and  customer 
have  designated  four  spaces  as  Heaven,  Limbo,  Purgatory, 
and  Hell,  but  on  a  preliminary  paving-stone  —  let  truth  need 
no  apology  ! — they  have  done  some  artistic  spitting,  with  the 
result  that  four  different  figures  in  saliva  are  presented  to  the 
little  honey-jar.  These  four  figures  bear  a  secret  relation 
to  the  four  spaces  on  the  sidewalk,  and  the  prisoner  must 
make  his  choice.  "  This  !  "  he  ventures.  "  Hell !  "  scream 
the  merchant  and  customer,  and  drag  him,  shrieking  and 
struggling,  to  his  doom.  The  next,  perhaps,  will  have  the 
luck  to  hit  on  Heaven,  for  every  little  honey-jar  must  take  his 
chance  in  this  theological  lottery. 

Sometimes  the  market  becomes  a  transformation  scene. 
The  children  hold  up  their  forefingers  for  candles,  but 
embarrass  the  merchant  by  doubling  these  up  whenever  the 
customer  is  on  the  point  of  buying.  Just  as  the  bargain  is 
about  to  be  concluded,  the  little  candles  vanish  and  the  chil- 
dren roll  themselves  into  bunches  of  grapes,  some  proving 
sweet  and  others  sour.  Again,  they  make  themselves  over 
into  pitchers,  cushions,  and  all  variety  of  domestic  articles, 
becoming  at  last  a  pack  of  barking  dogs  which  rush  out  on  the 
customer,  snap  at  his  legs,  and  drive  him  off  the  premises. 

Again,  it  is  a  chicken-market  on  which  the  Uncle  of  the 
Torn  Trousers  chances,  where  one  by  one  he  buys  all  the 
hens  and  chickens,  but  forgets  to  buy  the  rooster,  and  when, 


Choral   Games  of  Spanish  Children          317 

by  and  by,  this  lordly  fowl,  waxing  lonely,  cock-a-doodle-doos, 
the  hens  and  chickens  come  scurrying  back  to  him,  more  to 
the  profit  of  the  merchant  than  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
customer. 

In  another  of  the  chicken  games,  the  Mother  leaves  Mari- 
quilla  in  charge  of  the  brood,  with  directions,  if  the  wolf 
comes,  to  fling  him  the  smallest.  But  he  comes  so  often 
that,  when  the  Mother  returns,  there  are  no  chickens  left. 
Then  she  and  Little  Mary  go  hunting  them,  hop-hop-hop 
through  Flea  Street,  bow-wow-wow  through  Dog  Street,  and 
so  on  without  success,  until  it  occurs  to  them  to  scatter  corn. 
Thereupon  with  peep-peep-peep  and  flip-flap-flutter  all  the 
chickens  appear,  but  only  to  fly  at  the  negligent  Mother,  who 
left  them  to  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and  assail  her  with  such 
furious  pecks  that  she  must  run  for  her  life,  the  indignant 
chicks  racing  in  wild  pursuit. 

There  is  a  market-garden  game,  where  one  acts  as  gardener, 
others  as  vegetables,  and  others  as  customers.  Others,  still, 
come  creeping  up  as  thieves,  but  are  opposed  by  a  barking 
dog,  which  they  kill.  The  gardener  summons  them  before 
the  judge.  A  trial  is  held,  with  much  fluent  Spanish  argu- 
ment pro  and  con,  and  the  prisoners  are  condemned  to  execu- 
tion for  the  murder  of  the  dog.  But  at  the  last  thrilling 
moment,  when  they  have  confessed  their  sins  to  the  priests, 
and  been  torn  from  the  embraces  of  their  weeping  friends,  the 
dog  trots  cheerfully  in,  so  very  much  alive  that  all  the  crimi- 
nals are  pardoned  in  a  general  dance  of  joy. 

The  little  girls  have  a  favorite  shopping  game.  In  this  the 
children  are  seated,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  two  rows  that  face 
each  other.  Every  child  takes  the  name  of  some  cloth,  silks 


ji 8  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

and  satins  being  preferred.  The  leader  of  the  game  runs 
around  the  two  rows,  singing  :  — 

"  Up  the  counter,  down  the  counter  ! 

How  can  I  buy  enough  ? 
Down  the  counter,  up  the  counter  ! 
I  choose  this  velvet  stuff." 

Little  Velvet  immediately  jumps  to  her  feet  and  follows  the 
leader,  who  continues  choosing  and  calling,  choosing  and  call- 
ing, until  the  stock  is  exhausted  and  she  can  go  home  with  all 
her  purchases  most  conveniently  trooping  at  her  heels. 

But  the  plays  dearest  to  the  black-eyed  ninas  are  love  plays, 
of  which  they  have  a  countless  number.  Most  of  these  con- 
sist of  the  dancing,  singing  circle,  with  a  child  in  the  centre 
who  chooses  a  mate.  Some  are  as  simple  as  this  :  — 

««  Milk  and  rice  ! 

I  want  to  marry 
A  maiden  nice. 

I  may  not  tarry. 
It  is  not  this, 

Nor  this,  nor  this. 
'Tis  only  this 

Whom  I  want  to  marry." 

Ambb,  ato  is  hardly  more  elaborate.  When  in  the  exchange 
of  question  and  answer,  the  child  would  choose  her  page  and 
touches  one  of  the  circle,  the  mercenary  mites  dance  on  faster 
than  ever,  until  she  offers  whatever  gift  she  has,  a  flower, 
apple,  or  any  trifle  at  hand.  Then  the  page  runs  in  and 
kneels  before  her.  The  circle  dances  about  the  two,  singing 
the  refrain,  until  the  first  child  slips  out  and  joins  them, 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          319 

leaving   the   second   in   the   centre  to   begin   the    game   over 

again. 

"  Ambo,  a  to,  ma  tar  He,  rile,  rile? 
Ambo,  ato,  matarile,  rile,  ran  ? 

1.  "What  do  you  want,  matarile,  rile,  rile  ? 

What  do  you  want,  matarile,  rile,  ron  ? 

2.  "I  want  a  page,  matarile,  rile,  rile. 

I  want  a  page,  matarile,  rile,  ron. 

1.  "Choose  whom  you  will,  matarile,  rile,  rile. 

Choose  whom  you  will,  matarile,  rile,  ron. 

2.  "I  choose  Pedro,  matarile,  rile,  rile. 

I  choose  Pedro,  matarile,  rile,  ron. 

1.  "What  will  you  give  him,  matarile,  rile,  rile? 

What  will  you  give  him,  matarile,  rile,  ron  ? 

2.  "I'll  give  him  an  orange,  matarile,  rile,  rile. 

I'll  give  him  an  orange,  matarile,  rile,  ron. 

I .     "  He  answers  yes,  matarile,  rile,  rile. 
He  answers  yes,  matarile,  rile,  ron." 

"  The  Charcoal  Woman  "  requires  an  odd  number  of  play- 
ers. The  circle  dances  about  a  little  girl  who  stands  all  for- 
lorn in  the  centre.  The  chorus  sings  the  first  stanza,  the 
child  sings  the  second,  which  has  reference  to  the  fact  that 
Spanish  charcoal  is  often  made  from  laurel  wood,  and  the 
chorus,  in  a  comforting  tone,  the  third.  Then,  while  the 
child  runs  about  and  about  the  circle  as  if  seeking,  the  chorus 
angrily  sings  the  fourth  stanza,  accusing  her  of  ambition,  and 
the  little  charcoal  woman  retorts  with  the  fifth,  making  her 
choice  as  she  sings  the  last  four  words.  At  this  the  circle 


320 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 


breaks,  the  children  quickly  choosing  mates  and  dancing  by 
pairs.  The  one  who  is  left  without  a  partner  takes  her  place 
in  the  centre  as  the  next  Charcoal  Woman. 


i. 


Chorus. 


"  Who  would  say  that  the  charcoal  woman, 
Sooty,  sooty  charcoal  woman, 
In  all  the  city  and  all  the  land 
Could  find  a  lover  to  kiss  her  hand  ? 


Charcoal  Woman.  z' 

"The  little  widow  of  good  Count  Laurel 
Has  no  one  left  her  for  kiss  or  quarrel. 
I  want  a  sweetheart  and  find  me  none. 
Charcoal  women  must  bide  alone. 

3- 

Chorus.       "  Poor  little  widow,  so  sweet  thou  art, 
If  there's  no  other  to  claim  thy  heart, 
Take  thy  pick  of  us  who  stand 
Ready  to  kiss  thy  sooty  hand. 


Chorus.      "  The  charcoal  woman,  the  charcoal  woman, 
Proud  little  black  little  charcoal  woman, 
Goes  seeking  up  and  seeking  down 
To  find  the  Count  of  Cabratown. 

Charcoal  Woman.  5* 

"  I  would  not  marry  the  Count  of  Cabra. 
Never  will  marry  the  Count  of  Cabra. 
Count  of  Cabra  !   Oh,  deary  me  ! 
I'll  not  have  him,  — if  you1  re  not  be  !  " 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish   Children          321 

Just  such  coquettish  touches  of  Spanish  spirit  and  maiden 
pride  appear  in  many  of  the  songs,  as,  for  instance,  in  one  of 
their  counting-out  carols,  "  The  Garden." 

"The  garden  of  our  house  it  is 

The  funniest  garden  yet, 
For  when  it  rains  and  rains  and  rains, 
The  garden  it  is  wet. 

And  now  we  bow, 
Skip  back  and  then  advance, 
For  who  know  how  to  make  a  bow 
Know  how  to  dance. 
AB  — C  — AB  — C 
DE  —  FG  —  HI— J. 
If  your  worship  does  not  love  me, 
Then  a  better  body  may. 
AB  — C— AB  — C, 
KL  — MN  — OP  — Q. 
If  you  think  you  do  not  love  me, 
I  am  sure  I  don't  love  you." 


Sometimes  these  dancing  midgets   lisp  a  song  of  worldly 
wisdom  :  — 

"If  any  cadet 

With  thee  would  go, 
Daughter,  instantly 

Answer  no. 
For  how  can  cadet, 

This  side  of  Heaven, 
Keep  a  wife 

On  his  dollars  seven  ? 


322  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

"If  any  lieutenant 

Asks  a  caress, 
Daughter,  instantly 

Answer  yes. 
For  the  lieutenant 

Who  kisses  thy  hand 
May  come  to  be 

A  general  grand." 

And,  again,  these  babies  may  be  heard  giving  warning  that 
men  betray. 

"The  daughters  of  Ceferino 

Went  to  walk  —  alas ! 
A  street  above,  a  street  below, 

Street  of  San  Tomas. 
The  least  of  all,  they  lost  her. 

Her  father  searched  —  alas ! 
A  street  above,  a  street  below, 

Street  of  San  Tomas. 
And  there  he  found  her  talking 

With  a  cavalier,  who  said, 
'  Come  home  with  me,  my  darling, 

'Tis  you  that  I  would  wed.' 

"Oh,  have  you  seen  the  pear  tree 

Upon  my  grandpa's  lawn? 
Its  pears  are  sweet  as  honey, 

But  when  the  pears  are  gone, 
A  turtle-dove  sits  moaning, 

With  blood  upon  her  wings, 
Amid  the  highest  branches, 

And  this  is  what  she  sings  : 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          323 

'  111  fares  the  foolish  maiden 
,    Who  trusts  a  stranger's  fibs. 
She'd  better  take  a  cudgel 
And  break  his  ugly  ribs.' ' 

The  dance  for  "  Elisa  of  Mambru  "  begins  merrily,  and 
soon  saddens  to  a  funereal  pace. 

"In  Madrid  was  born  a  maiden  —  carabi! 
Daughter  of  a  general  —  carabi,  huri,  hura!" 

The  song  goes  on  to  tell  of  Elisa's  beautiful  hair,  which  her 
aunt  dressed  so  gently  for  her  with  a  golden  comb  and  crystal 
curling-pins,  and  how  Elisa  died  and  was  carried  to  church  in 
an  elegant  coffin,  and  how  a  little  bird  used  to  perch  upon  her 
grave  and  chirp,  pio,  pio. 

Mambru  himself  is  the  pathetic  hero  of  Spanish  childhood. 
This  Mambru  for  whom  the  little  ones  from  Aragon  to  Anda- 
lusia pipe  so  many  simple  elegies,  the  Mambru  sung  by  Trilby, 
is  not  the  English  Marlborough  to  them,  but,  be  he  lord  or 
peasant,  one  of  their  very  own. 

"  Mambru  is  gone  to  serve  the  king, 
And  comes  no  more  by  fall  or  spring. 

"  We've  looked  until  our  eyes  are  dim. 
Will  no  one  give  us  word  of  him  ? 

"You'd  know  him  for  his  mother's  son 
By  peasant  dress  of  Aragon. 

"  You'd  know  him  for  my  husband  dear 
By  broidered  kerchief  on  his  spear. 

"The  one  I  broider  now  is  wet. 
Oh,  may  I  see  him  wear  it  yet!  " 


324  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

At  the  end  of  this  song,  as  of  the  following,  the  little 
dancers  throw  themselves  on  the  ground,  as  if  in  despair. 

' '  Mambru  went  forth  to  battle. 

Long  live  Love! 
I  listen  still  for  his  coming  feet. 
The  rose  on  the  rose  bush  blossoms  sweet. 

"  He  will  come  back  by  Easter. 

Long  live  Love! 

He  will  come  back  by  Christmas-tide. 
The  rose  on  the  bush  has  drooped  and  died. 

"  Down  the  road  a  page  is  riding. 

Long  live  Love! 

'  Oh,  what  are  the  tidings  that  you  bear  ?  ' 
The  rose  on  the  bush  is  budding  fair. 

"  «  Woe  is  me  for  my  tidings! ' 

Long  live  Love! 

'  Mambru  lies  cold  this  many  a  morn.' 
Ay,  for  a  rose  bush  sharp  with  thorn! 

"  A  little  bird  is  chirping. 

Long  live  Love! 

In  the  withered  bush  where  no  more  buds  blow, 
The  bird  is  chirping  a  note  of  woe." 

A  game  that  I  often  watched  blithe  young  Granadines  play- 
ing under  the  gray  shadow  of  Alhambra  walls,  seems  to  be  a 
Spanish  version  of  "  London  Bridge  is  Falling  Down."  Two 
children  are  chosen  to  be  Rose  and  Pink.  These  form  an 
arch  with  their  uplifted  arms,  through  which  run  the  other 
children  in  a  line,  headed  by  the  Mother.  A  musical  dia- 
logue is  maintained  throughout. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          325 

"Rose  and  Pink. 

To  the  viper  of  love,  that  hides  in  flowers, 
The  only  way  lies  here. 

Mother. 

Then  here  I  pass  and  leave  behind 

One  little  daughter  dear. 
Rote  and  Pink. 

Shall  the  first  one  or  the  last 
Be  captive  of  our  chain  ? 

Mother. 

Oh,  the  first  one  runs  too  lightly. 
'Tis  the  last  that  shall  remain. 

Chorus. 

Pass  on,  oho  !      Pass  on,  aha  ! 
By  the  gate  of  Alcala  ! ' ' 

The  last  child  is  caught  by  the  falling  arms  and  is  asked 
whether  she  will  go  with  Rose  or  Pink.  She  shyly  whispers 
her  choice,  taking  her  stand  behind  her  elected  leader,  whom 
she  clasps  about  the  waist.  When  all  the  children  of  the  line 
have  been  successively  caught  in  the  falling  arch,  and  have 
taken  their  places  behind  either  Rose  or  Pink,  the  game  ends 
in  a  grand  tugging  match.  Rose  and  Pink  hold  hands  as  long 
as  they  can,  while  the  two  lines  try  to  drag  them  apart.  All 
the  while,  until  the  very  last,  the  music  ripples  on :  — 

"Rose  and  Pink. 

Let  the  young  mind  make  its  choice, 
As  young  minds  chance  to  think. 
Now  is  the  Rose  your  leader, 
Or  go  you  with  the  Pink  ? 
Let  the  young  heart  make  its  choice 


326  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

By  laws  the  young  heart  knows. 
Now  is  the  Pink  your  leader, 
Or  go  you  with  the  Rose  ? 
Chorus. 

Pass  on,  oho  !      Pass  on,  aha  ! 
By  the  gate  of  Alcala  ! ' ' 

Another  favorite  is  "  Golden  Ear-rings."  Here  the 
Mother,  this  time  a  Queen,  sits  in  a  chair,  supposedly  a 
throne,  and  close  before  her,  on  the  floor,  sits  the  youngest 
daughter ;  before  this  one,  the  next  youngest,  and  so  on,  in 
order  of  age.  Two  other  children,  holding  a  handkerchief  by 
the  corners,  walk  up  and  down  the  line,  one  on  one  side  and 
one  on  the  other,  so  passing  the  handkerchief  above  the  heads 
of  the  seated  princesses.  Then  ensues  the  musical  dialogue 
between  these  two  suitors  and  the  Queen. 

"<  We've  come  from  France,  my  lady, 

And  Portugal  afar. 
We've  heard  of  your  fair  daughters, 
And  very  fair  they  are.' 

*  Be  they  fair  or  no,  senores, 

It's  none  of  your  concern, 
For  God  has  given  me  bread  for  all, 

And  given  me  hands  to  earn.' 

'  Then  we  depart,  proud  lady, 

To  find  us  brides  elsewhere. 
The  daughters  of  the  Moorish  king 

Our  wedding  rings  shall  wear.' 

'  Come  back,  my  sweet  senores  ! 

Bear  not  so  high  a  crest. 
You  may  take  my  eldest  daughter, 

But  leave  me  all  the  rest.'  " 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          327 

The  dialogue  is  transferred  to  one  of  the  suitors  and  to  the 
princess  at  the  farther  end  of  the  line,  on  whose  head  the 
handkerchief  now  rests. 

"  '  Will  you  come  with  me,  my  Onion  ? ' 

'  Fie  !  that's  a  kitchen  smell.' 
'  Will  you  come  with  me,  my  Rosebud  ? ' 
'  Ay,  gardens  please  me  well. '  ' 

In  similar  fashion  all  the  daughters  are  coaxed  away  until 
only  the  youngest  remains,  but  she  proves  obdurate.  They 
may  call  her  Parsley  or  Pink  ;  it  makes  no  difference.  So  the 
suitors  resort  to  bribes,  the  last  proving  irresistible. 

"  '  We'll  buy  you  a  French  missal.' 

'  I  have  a  book  in  Latin.' 
'In  taffeta  we'll  dress  you.' 

'  My  clothes  are  all  of  satin.' 
'  You  shall  ride  upon  a  donkey.' 

'  I  ride  in  coaches  here. ' 
'We'll  give  you  golden  ear-rings.' 

'  Farewell,  my  mother  dear. '  ' 

In  some  of  the  many  variants  of  this  game,  the  Queen  her- 
self, adequate  as  she  may  be  to  earning  her  own  living,  is 
wooed  and  won  at  last. 

I  have  not  met  with  fairy-lore  among  these  children's 
carols.  The  only  fairy  known  to  Spain  appears  to  be  a  sort 
of  spiritualistic  brownie,  who  tips  over  tables  and  rattles  chairs 
in  empty  rooms  by  night.  The  grown-up  men  who  write  of 
him  say  he  frightens  women  and  children.  He  can  haunt  a 
house  as  effectually  as  an  old-time  ghost,  and  a  Casa  del  Duende 
may  go  begging  for  other  tenants.  One  poor  lady,  who  went 


328  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

to  all  the  trouble  of  moving  to  escape  from  him,  was  leaning 
over  the  balcony  of  her  new  home,  —  so  the  story  goes,  —  to 
see  the  last  cartful  of  furniture  drive  up,  when  a  tiny  man  in 
scarlet  waved  a  feathered  cap  to  her  from  the  very  top  of  the 
load  and  called,  "  Yes,  senora,  we  are  all  here.  We  have 
moved." 

So  the  childish  imagination  of  Spain,  shut  out  from  fairy- 
land, makes  friends  with  the  saints  in  such  innocent,  familiar 
way  as  well  might  please  even  Ribera's  anchorites.  The 
adventurous  small  boy  about  to  take  a  high  jump  pauses  to 

pray:- 

"  Saint  Magdalene, 
Don't  let  me  break  my  thigh  ! 
Oh,  Saint  Thomas, 
Help  this  birdie  fly  !  " 

The  little  girls  express  decided  preferences  for  one  saint 

over  another. 

"  Old  San  Anton, 

What  has  he  done  ? 
Put  us  in  the  corner  every  one. 

"  San  Sebastian 

Is  a  nice  young  man. 
He  takes  us  to  walk  and  gives  us  a  fan." 

Santa  Rita  is  best  at  finding  lost  needles,  and  San  Pantaleon 

is  a  humorist. 

"  San  Pantaleon, 

Are  twenty  and  one 
Children  enough  for  an  hour  of  fun 
Slippers  of  iron 
Donkey  must  try  on. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          329 

Moors  with  their  pages 
Ride  in  gold  stages. 
But  if  you  want  a 
Girdle,  Infanta, 
Cucurucu, 
'Bout-face  with  you  !  " 

At  this  one  of  the  children  dancing  in  circle  whirls  around, 
remaining  in  her  place,  but  with  back  turned  to  the  centre 
and  arms  crossed  over  her  breast,  although  her  hands  still 
hold  those  of  her  nearest  neighbors.  The  rhyme  is  sung  over 
and  over,  until  all  the  little  figures  have  thus  turned  about 
and  the  circle  is  dancing  under  laughable  difficulties. 

But  the  dearest  saint  of  all  is  San  Sereni.  Two  of  the 
best-known  games  are  under  his  peculiar  blessing.  One  of 
these  is  of  the  genuine  Kindergarten  type,  the  children  dancing 
in  a  circle  through  the  first  two  lines  of  each  stanza,  but  then 
loosing  hands  to  imitate,  in  time  to  the  music,  the  suggested 

action. 

"  San  Sereni, 
The  holy  —  holy-hearted  ! 

Thus  for  thee 
The  shoemakers  are  cobbling. 

Thus,  thus,  thus  ! 

* 

Thus  it  pleases  us." 

Even  so  it  pleases  seamstresses  to  stitch,  laundresses  to  wash, 
carpenters  to  saw,  silversmiths  to  tap,  ironsmiths  to  pound, 
and  little  folks  to  dance,  all  for  "  San  Sereni  de  la  buena, 
buena  vida."  In  the  second  game,  a  gymnastic  exercise,  whose 
four  movements  are  indicated  in  the  four  stanzas,  he  is  apos- 
trophized  as  "  San  Sereni  del  Monte,  San  Sereni  cortes.  " 


330  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

"San  Sereni  of  the  Mountain, 

Our  saint  of  courtesy, 
I,  as  a  good  Christian, 
Will  fall  upon  my  knee. 

"San  Sereni  of  the  Mountain, 

Where  the  strong  winds  pass, 
I,  as  a  good  Christian, 
Will  seat  me  on  the  grass. 

"San  Sereni  of  the  Mountain, 

Where  the  white  clouds  fly, 
I,  as  a  good  Christian, 
Upon  the  ground  will  lie. 

"San  Sereni  of  the  Mountain, 

Where  earth  and  heaven  meet, 
I,  as  a  good  Christian, 

Will  spring  upon  my  feet." 

With   the   legend   of  St.    Katharine    and    her    martyrdom 
childish  fancy  has  played  queer  caprices. 

"In  Cadiz  was  a  wean  —  ah! 
The  gentlest  ever  seen  —  ah ! 
*  Her  name  was  Catalina. 

Ay,  so  ! 
Her  name  was  Catalina. 

"  Her  father,  Moslem  cruel, 
He  made  her  bring  in  fuel. 
Her  mother  fed  her  gruel. 

Ay,  so  ! 
Her  mother  fed  her  gruel. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          331 

"They  beat  her  Tuesday,  Wednesday, 
They  beat  her  Thursday,  Friday, 
They  beat  her  Saturday,  Monday. 

Ay,  so  ! 
They  beat  her  hardest  Sunday. 

"  Once  bade  her  wicked  sire 
She  make  a  wheel  most  dire, 
Of  scissors,  knives,  and  fire. 

Ay,  so  ! 
Of  scissors,  knives,  and  fire. 

"The  noble  Christian  neighbors, 
In  pity  of  her  labors, 
Brought  silver  swords  and  sabres. 

Ay,  so  ! 
Brought  silver  swords  and  sabres. 

"  By  noon  her  task  was  ended, 
And  on  that  wheel  all  splendid 
Her  little  knee  she  bended. 

Ay,  so  ! 
Her  little  knee  she  bended. 

"Then  down  a  stair  of  amber 
She  saw  the  cherubs  clamber  : 
'  Come  rest  in  our  blue  chamber.' 

Ay,  so  ! 
She  rests  in  their  blue  chamber." 


Little   Spaniards   are   not   too   intolerant  to  make   a  play- 
fellow of  the  Devil.      In  one  of  their  pet  games,  the  children 


33 2  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

form  in  line,  with  the  invaluable  Mother  in  charge.  To  each 
child  she  secretly  gives  the  name  of  a  color.  Then  an  Angel 
comes  in  with  a  flying  motion  and  calls,  for  instance,  "  Pur- 
ple !  "  But  there  is  no  Purple  in  the  company.  It  is  then 
the  Devil's  turn,  who  rushes  in,  usually  armed  with  a  table- 
fork,  and  roars  for  "  Green."  There  is  a  Green  in  the  line, 
and  she  has  to  follow  the  Demon,  while  the  Angel  tries  again. 
All  right-minded  spectators  hope  that  the  Angel  will  have  the 
longer  array  at  the  last. 

The    Virgin's    well-beloved    name    comes    often    into    the 
children's  songs. 

"For  studying  my  lessons, 

So  as  not  to  be  a  dunce, 
Papa  gave  me  eight  dollars, 

That  I  mean  to  spend  at  once. 
Four  for  my  dolly's  necklace, 

Two  for  a  collar  fine, 
And  one  to  buy  a  candle 

For  Our  Lady's  shrine." 

Even  the  supreme  solemnity  of  the  Wafer  borne  through 
the  kneeling  streets  cannot  abash  the  trustful  gaze  of  childhood. 

"  f  Where  are  you  going,  dear  Jesus, 

So  gallant  and  so  gay  ? ' 
'  I  am  going  to  a  dying  man 

To  wash  his  sins  away. 
And  if  I  find  him  sorry 

For  the  evil  he  has  done, 
Though  his  sins  are  more  than  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

I'll  pardon  every  one,' 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          333 

"  '  Where  are  you  going,  dear  Jesus, 

So  gallant  and  so  gay  ? ' 
'  I'm  coming  back  from  a  dying  man 

Whose  sins  are  washed  away. 
Because  I  found  him  sorry 

For  the  evil  he  had  done, 
Though  his  sins  were  more  than  the  sands  of  the  sea, 

I've  pardoned  every  one.'  ' 

The  affairs  of  State  as  well  as  of  Church  have  left  their 
traces  on  the  children's  play.  As  the  little  ones  dance  in 
circle,  their  piping  music  tells  a  confused  tale  of  Spanish  his- 
tory within  these  latter  days. 

"In  Madrid  there  is  a  palace, 

As  bright  as  polished  shell, 
And  in  it  lives  a  lady 

They  call  Queen  Isabel. 
Not  for  count  nor  duke  nor  marquis 

Her  father  would  she  sell, 
For  not  all  the  gold  in  Spain  could  buy 

The  crown  of  Isabel. 

"  One  day  when  she  was  feasting 

Within  this  palace  grand, 
A  lad  of  A  ragon  walked  in 

And  seized  her  by  the  hand. 
Through  street  and  square  he  dragged  her 

To  a  dreary  prison  cell, 
And  all  that  weary  way  she  wept, 

The  lady  Isabel. 

"  '  For  whom  art  weeping,  lady  ? 
What  gives  thy  spirit  pain  ? 


334  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

If  thou  weepest  for  thy  brothers, 

They  will  not  come  again. 
If  thou  weepest  for  thy  father, 

He  lies  'neath  sheet  of  stone.' 
'  For  these  I  am  not  weeping, 

But  for  sorrows  of  mine  own. 
"  '  I  want  a  golden  dagger.' 

*  A  golden  dagger  !     Why  ? ' 
'  To  cut  this  juicy  pear  in  two. 

Of  thirst  I  almost  die.' 
We  gave  the  golden  dagger. 

She  did  not  use  it  well. 
Ah,  no,  it  was  not  pears  you  cut, 

My  lady  Isabel." 

These  dancing  circles  keep  in  memory  the  assassination  of 
Marshal  Prim. 

"As  he  came  from  the  Cortes, 

Men  whispered  to  Prim, 
'  Be  wary,  be  wary, 

For  life  and  for  limb.' 
Then  answered  the  General, 

'  Come  blessing,  come  bane, 
I  live  or  I  die 

In  the  service  of  Spain.' 
"  In  the  Calk  del  Turco, 

Where  the  starlight  was  dim, 
Nine  cowardly  bullets 

Gave  greeting  to  Prim. 
The  best  of  the  Spaniards 
Lay  smitten  and  slain, 
And  the  new  King  he  died  for 
Came  weeping  to  Spain." 


Choral   Games  of  Spanish  Children          335 

This    new  king,  Amadeo,    is    funnily    commemorated    in 
another  dancing  djtty,  "  Four  Sweethearts." 

"  Maiden,  if  they  ask  thee, 

Maiden,  if  they  ask  thee, 
If  thou  hast  a  sweetheart  —  ha,  ha  ! 

If  thou  hast  a  sweetheart, 

Answer  without  blushing, 

Answer  without  blushing, 
'  Four  sweethearts  are  mine  —  ha,  ha  ! 

Four  sweethearts  are  mine. 

'* '  The  first  he  is  the  son  of — 

The  first  he  is  the  son  of 
A  confectioner  —  ha,  ha  ! 

A  confectioner. 

Sugar-plums  he  gives  me, 

Sugar-plums  he  gives  me, 
Caramels  and  creams  —  ha,  ha! 

Caramels  and  creams. 

"  '  The  second  is  the  son  of — 

The  second  is  the  son  of 
An  apothecary  —  ha,  ha  ! 

An  apothecary. 

Syrups  sweet  he  gives  me, 

Syrups  sweet  he  gives  me, 
For  my  little  cough  —  hack,  hack  ! 

For  my  little  cough. 

"  '  The  third  he  is  the  son  of — 

The  third  he  is  the  son  of 
The  barber  to  the  court  —  ha,  ha  ! 
The  barber  to  the  court. 


336  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

Powders  rare  he  gives  me, 
Powders  rare  he  gives  me, 
And  a  yellow  wig  —  ha,  ha  ! 
And  a  yellow  wig. 

"  '  The  fourth  ?     Oh,  'tis  a  secret, 

The  fourth  ?     Oh,  'tis  a  secret. 
Our  new  Italian  king  —  ha,  ha! 

Our  new  Italian  king. 

He  gives  me  silk  and  satin, 

He  gives  me  silk  and  satin, 
Velvet,  gold,  and  gems  —  ha,  ha ! 

Velvet,  gold,  and  gems.'  ' 

Strangest  of  all  is  the  dramatic  little  dialogue,  which 
one  with  an  ear  for  children's  voices  may  hear  any  day  in 
Madrid,  telling  of  the  death  of  Queen  Mercedes. 

"  '  Whither  away,  young  King  Alfonso  ? 
(Oh,  for  pity  !)      Whither  away  ?  ' 
'  I  go  seeking  my  queen  Mercedes, 

For  I  have  not  seen  her  since  yesterday.' 

"  '  But  we  have  seen  your  queen  Mercedes, 

Seen  the  queen,  though  her  eyes  were  hid, 
While  four  dukes  all  gently  bore  her 
Through  the  streets  of  sad  Madrid. 

"  *  Oh,  how  her  face  was  calm  as  heaven  ! 
Oh,  how  her  hands  were  ivory  white  ! 
Oh,  how  she  wore  the  satin  slippers 
That  you  kissed  on  the  bridal  night  ! 

"  '  Dark  are  the  lamps  of  the  lonely  palace. 
Black  are  the  suits  the  nobles  don. 


Choral  Games  of  Spanish  Children          337 

In  letters  of  gold  on  the  wall  'tis  written  : 
Her  Majesty  is  dead  and  gone,1 

"  He  fainted  to  hear  us,  young  Alfonso, 

Drooped  like  an  eagle  with  broken  wing, 
But  the  cannon  thundered  :    '  Valor,  valor  ! ' 

And  the  people  shouted  :   « Long  live  the  king  ! '  " 

Spanish  wiseheads  say  that  the  children's  choral  games  are 
already  perishing,  that  the  blight  of  schools  and  books  is  pass- 
ing upon  the  child-life  of  the  Peninsula,  and  soon  there  will 
be  no  more  time  for  play.  The  complaint  of  the  ninas  is 
much  to  the  same  effect,  yet  they  wear  their  rue  with  a 
difference  :  — 

"  Not  even  in  the  Prado 

Can  little  maidens  play, 
Because  those  staring,  teasing  boys 
Are  always  in  the  way. 

"  They  might  be  romping  with  us, 
For  they're  only  children  yet, 
But  they  won't  play  at  anything 
Except  a  cigarette. 

"  Now  let  me  tell  you  truly  : 
If  things  go  on  like  this, 
And  midgets  care  for  nothing 
But  to  walk  and  talk  and  kiss, 

"  No  plays  will  cheer  the  Prado 

In  future  times,  for  then 
The  little  boys  of  seven 
Will  all  be  married  men.'* 


XXI 

"  O    LA    SENORITA  !  " 

"  Since  the  English  education  came  into  fashion,  there  is  not  a  maiden  left  who  can 
feel  true  love. "  —  ALARCON. 

DURING  my  stifling  night  journey  from  Madrid  to 
the  north  I  had  much  chat  with  Castilian  and 
German  ladies  in  the  carriage  about  Spanish  girls. 
Our  talk  turned  especially  on  their  reading,  so  reminding 
me  of  an  incident  of  the  past  spring.  On  an  Andalusian 
balcony  I  once  found  a  little  girl  curled  up  in  the  coolest 
corner  and  poring  over  a  shabby,  paper-bound  book.  On 
my  expressing  interest  in  the  volume,  she  presented  it  at 
once,  according  to  the  code  of  Spanish  manners.  "  The 
book  is  at  the  disposal  of  your  worship."  But  as  the  bundle 
of  tattered  leaves  was  not  only  so  precious  to  her  own  small 
worship,  but  also  greatly  in  demand  among  her  worshipful 
young  mates,  whose  constant  borrowing  seemed  a  strain  even 
on  Andalusian  courtesy,  I  retained  it  merely  long  enough  to 
note  the  title  and  general  character.  The  next  time  I  entered 
a  book-shop  I  expended  ten  cents  for  this  specimen  of  juvenile 
literature  —  "the  best-selling  book  in  Seville,"  if  the  clerk's 
word  may  be  taken  —  and  have  it  before  me  as  I  write.  On 
the  cover  is  stamped  a  picture  of  two  graceful  senoritas,  perus- 

338 


THE  DIVIXK  SHKPHKRD 


"O  la  Senorita!"  339 

ing,  apparently,  this  very  work,  "The  Book  of  the  Enamored 
and  the  Secretary  of  Lovers,"  and  throughout  the  two  hun- 
dred pages  are  scattered  cheap  cuts,  never  indecent,  but 
suggesting  violent  ardors  of  passion  —  embracings,  kissings, 
gazings,  pleadings,  with  hearts,  arrows,  torches,  and  other 
ancient  and  honorable  heraldry  of  Cupid.  The  title-page 
announces  that  this  is  a  fifth  edition  of  ten  thousand  copies. 

The  opening  section  is  on  "  Love  and  Beauty,"  enumerat- 
ing, by  the  way,  the  "  thirty  points "  essential  to  a  perfect 
woman.  "Three  things  white  —  skin,  teeth,  and  hands. 
Three  black  —  eyes,  eyebrows,  and  eyelashes.  Three  rosy 
—  lips,  cheeks, -and  nails."  But  warning  is  duly  given  that 
even  the  thirty  points  of  beauty  do  not  make  up  a  sum  total 
of  perfection  without  the  mystic,  all-harmonizing  quality  of 
charm. 

Next  in  order  are  the  several  sets  of  directions  for  winning 
the  affections  of  maid,  wife,  and  widow,  with  a  collection  of 
edifying  sentiments  from  various  saints  and  wits  concerning 
widows.  Descriptions  of  wedding  festivities  follow,  with  a 
glowing  dissertation  on  kisses,  "  the  banquet-cups  of  love." 
After  this  stands  a  Castilian  translation  of  an  impassioned 
Arab  love-song  with  the  burden,  Todo  es  amor.  Maxims  on 
love,  culled  chiefly  from  French  authorities,  are  succeeded  by 
an  eighteenth-century  love-catechism  :  — 

"  Question.      Art  thou  a  lover  ? 

Answer.      Yes,  by  the  grace  of  Cupid. 

Question.     What  is  a  lover  ? 

Answer.  A  lover  is  one  who,  having  made  true  and  faithful  dec- 
laration of  his  passion,  seeks  the  means  of  gaining  the  love  of  her  whom 
he  adores." 


34°  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

This  is  the  first  lesson.  The  second  treats  of  the  five 
signs  of  love,  the  third  of  love's  duties,  the  fourth  gives  the 
orison  of  lovers  —  a  startling  adaptation  of  the  Lord's  Prayer 
—  and  their  creed:  "I  believe  in  Cupid,  absolute  Lord  of 
Love,  who  gives  to  lovers  all  their  joys,  and  in  her  whom  I 
love  most,  for  most  lovable  is  she,  on  whom  I  think  without 
ceasing,  and  for  whom  I  would  sacrifice  gladly  my  honor  and 
my  life." 

There  is  nothing  here,  it  will  be  noticed,  of  the  English- 
man's proud  exception  :  — 

ff  I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Love  has  its  own  beatitudes,  too.  "  Blessed  are  they  who 
love  sincerely.  Blessed  are  they  of  merry  mood.  Blessed  are 
lovers  who  have  patience.  Blessed  are  the  rich,  for  love 
delights  to  spend." 

A  "  Divination  of  Dreams,"  "  copied  from  an  ancient 
manuscript  found  in  the  ruins  of  the  convent  of  San  Pru- 
dencio,  in  Clavijo,"  that  famous  battle-ground  where  St. 
James  first  trampled  the  Moors,  next  engages  attention. 
To  dream  of  a  fan  is  sign  of  a  coming  flirtation  ;  of  a  ban- 
ner, success  in  war;  of  a  woman's  singing,  sorrow  and  loss; 
of  stars,  fair  fortune  in  love ;  of  fire,  good  luck  at  cards ;  of 
a  black  cat,  trouble  from  the  mother-in-law  ;  of  closed  eyes, 
your  child  in  mortal  peril ;  of  birds,  joy  and  sweet  content ; 
of  a  ghost,  ill  health  ;  of  scissors,  a  lover's  quarrel ;  of  wine, 
a  cheating  Frenchman  ;  of  shoes,  long  journeys  ;  of  angels, 
good  tidings  from  far  away.  Some  of  these  omens  are  a 
surprise  to  the  uninitiated  reader.  It  is  bad  luck  to  behold 


"O  la  Senorita!"  341 

in  a  dream  images  of  Christ  and  the  Virgin.  A  church,  seen 
from  within,  denotes  alms ;  from  without,  death.  To  dream 
of  the  altar  arrayed  for  high  mass  betokens  grave  misfortune. 
Other  omens  are  significant  of  Spanish  discontents.  To 
dream  of  a  Jesuit  brings  miseries  and  betrayals  ;  of  a  military 
officer,  tyranny  and  brutality  ;  of  a  king,  danger ;  of  a  repub- 
lic, "  abundance,  happiness,  honors,  and  work  well  recom- 
pensed." Often  these  divinations  run  into  rhyme,  as  :  — 

ft  Dream  of  God  at  midnight  dim, 
And  by  day  you'll  follow  Him." 

The  next  section  of  this  Complete  Guide  is  given  over  to 
snatches  of  love-song,  which  Andalusian  children  know  by 
heart.  These  five  are  fairly  representative  :  — 

"  Mine  is  a  lover  well  worth  the  loving. 

Under  my  balcony  he  cries  : 

* You  have  maddened  me  with  your  grace  of  moving, 
And  the  beaming  of  your  soft  black  eyes. ' ' 

"  Though  thou  go  to  the  highest  heaven, 

And  God's  hand  draw  thee  near, 
The  saints  will  not  love  thee  half  so  well 
As  I  have  loved  thee  here." 

"  If  I  had  a  blossom  rare, 
I  would  twine  it  in  thy  hair, 
Though  God  should  stoop  and  ask  for  it 
To  make  His  heaven  more  exquisite." 

"  Such  love  for  thee,  sent  forth  from  me, 

Bears  on  such  iron  gate 
That  I,  used  so,  no  longer  know 
Whether  I  love  or  hate." 


Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

"The  learned  are  not  wise, 

The  saints  are  not  in  bliss  ; 
They  have  not  looked  into  your  eyes, 
Nor  felt  your  burning  kiss." 


Then  comes  a  "  New  Dictionary  of  Love,"  defining  some 
two  hundred  doubtful  terms  in  Cupid's  lexicon,  -as  forever,  no, 
unselfish.  After  this  we  are  treated  to  the  language  of  fan 
flirtation,  of  handkerchief  flirtation,  of  flower  flirtation,  and 
"  the  clock  of  Flora,"  by  which  lovers  easily  make  appoint- 
ments,—  one,  two,  three,  being  numbered  in  rose,  pink,  tulip, 
and  so  on.  A  cut  of  a  youth  toiling  at  a  manuscript-laden 
desk  introduces  some  fifty  pages  of  model  love-letters,  which 
seem,  to  the  casual  eye,  to  cover  all  contingencies.  A  selec- 
tion of  verses  used  for  adding  a  grace  to  birthday  and  saint- 
day  gifts  comes  after,  and  this  all-sufficient  compendium 
concludes  with  a  "  Lovers'  Horoscope." 

A  single  illustration  of  the  sort  of  reading  that  Spanish 
girls  find  in  their  way  should  not,  of  course,  be  pressed  too 
far,  and  yet  any  one  who  had  seen  the  pretty  group  of  heads 
clustered  for  hours  over  these  very  pages  on  that  shaded 
balcony  would  not  deny  the  book  significance.  A  taste  for 
the  best  reading  is  not  cultivated  in  Spanish  girls,  even  where 
the  treasures  of  that  great  Castilian  literature  are  accessible 
to  them.  Convent  education  knows  nothing  of  Calderon. 
As  for  books  especially  adapted  to  girlhood,  we  have  just 
examined  a  sample. 

Love  and  religion  are  the  only  subjects  with  which  a 
senorita  is  expected  to  concern  herself,  and  the  life  of  the 
convent  is  often  a  second  choice.  Even  when  a  Spanish  girl 


"O  la  Senorita!"  343 

wins  her  crown  of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  her  ignorance 
and  poverty  of  thought  tell  heavily  against  the  most  essential 
interests  of  family  life.  The  Spanish  bride  is  often  a  child 
in  years.  Pacheco's  direction  for  painting  the  Immaculate 
Conception  ran,  "  Our  Lady  is  to  be  pictured  in  the  flower 
of  her  age,  from  twelve  to  thirteen."  This  was  three  centuries 
ago,  but  Spain  changes  slowly.  The  girl  of  to-day,  never- 
theless, marries  later  than  her  mother  married.  I  remember 
one  weary  woman  of  forty  with  eighteen  children  in  their 
graves  and  the  three  who  were  living  physical  and  mental 
weaklings.  She  told  us  of  a  friend  who  married  at  fourteen 
and  used  to  leave  her  household  affairs  in  confusion  while  she 
stole  away  to  a  corner  to  play  with  her  dolls.  Her  husband, 
a  grave  lawyer  in  middle  life,  would  come  home  to  dinner 
and  find  his  helpmeet  romping  with  the  other  children  in 
the  plaza. 

The  Spanish  girl  is  every  whit  as  fascinating  as  her 
musical,  cloaked  gallant  confides  to  her  iron-grated  lattice. 
Indeed,  these  amorous  serenades  hardly  do  her  justice,  blend- 
ing as  she  does  French  animation  with  Italian  fervor.  In 
Andalusia  she  dances  with  a  grace  that  makes  every  other 
use  of  life  seem  vain.  And  when  she  bargains,  there  is 
nothing  sordid  about  it.  Her  haggling  is  a  social  condescen- 
sion that  at  once  puts  the  black-eyed  young  salesman  at  her 
mercy. 

"  But  the  fan  seems  to  me  the  least  bit  dear,  senor." 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders  and  flings  out  his  arm  in  protest. 

"Ah,  senorita!  You  see  not  how  beautiful  the  work  is. 
I  am  giving  it  away  at  six  pesetas" 

She  lifts  her  eyebrows  half  incredulously,  all  bewitchingly. 


344  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

"  At  five  pesetas,  senor." 

He  runs  his  hand  through  his  black  hair  in  chivalrous 
distress. 

"  But  the  peerless  work,  senorita !  And  this  other,  too  ! 
I  sacrifice  it  at  four  pesetas." 

She  touches  both  fans  lightly. 

"  You  will  let  us  have  the  two  at  seven  pesetas,  senor  ? " 

Her  eyes  dance  over  his  confusion.  He  catches  the  gleam, 
laughs  back,  throws  up  his  hands. 

"  Bueno,  senorita.      At  what  you  please." 

It  takes  a  Spaniard  to  depict  a  throng  of  Spanish  ladies, — 
"  fiery  carnations  or  starry  jasmine  in  their  hair,  cheeks  like 
blush  roses,  eyes  black  or  blue,  with  lashes  quivering  like 
butterflies ;  cherry  lips,  a  glance  as  fickle  as  the  light  nod  of 
a  flower  in  the  wind,  and  smiles  that  reveal  teeth  like  pearls  ; 
the  all-pervading  fan  with  its  wordless  telegraphy  in  a  thou- 
sand colors."  In  such  a  throng  one  sees  not  only  the  typical 
"eyes  of  midnight,"  but  those  "emerald  eyes"  which  Cer- 
vantes knew,  and  veritable  pansy-colored  eyes  dancing  with 
more  than  pansy  mischief.  But  the  voices !  In  curious 
contrast  to  the  tones  of  Spanish  men,  soft,  coaxing,  caressing, 
the  voices  of  the  women  are  too  often  high  and  harsh,  suggest- 
ing, in  moments  of  excitement,  the  scream  of  the  Andalusian 
parrot.  "  O  Jesus,  what  a  fetching  hat !  The  feather,  the 
feather,  see,  see,  see,  see  the  feather !  Mary  Most  Pure, 
but  it  must  have  cost  four  or  five  pesetas!  Ah,  my  God, 
don't  I  wish  it  were  mine  !  "  The  speaker  who  gets  the  lead 
in  a  chattering  knot  of  Spanish  women  is  a  prodigy  not  only 
of  volubility,  but  of  general  muscular  action.  She  keeps  time 
to  her  shrill  music  with  hands,  fan,  elbows,  shoulders,  eye- 


"O  la  Sefiorita!"  345 

brows,  knees.  She  dashes  her  sentences  with  inarticulate 
whirs  and  whistles,  and  countless  pious  interjections  :  Gracias 
a  Dios!  Santa  Maria!  O  Dlos  mio !  The  others,  out- 
screamed  and  out-gesticulated,  clutch  at  her,  shriek  at  her,  fly 
at  her,  and  still,  by  some  mysterious  genius,  maintain  courtesy, 
grace,  and  dignity  through  it  all.  Yet  it  is  true  that  the  vul- 
gar-rich variety  is  especially  obnoxious  among  Spaniards.  An 
overdressed  Spanish  woman  is  frightfully  overdressed,  her 
voice  is  maddening,  her  gusts  of  mirth  and  anger  are  painfully 
uncontrolled.  This,  however,  is  the  exception,  and  refine- 
ment the  rule. 

The  legendary  Spanish  lady  is  forever  sitting  at  a  barred 
window,  or  leaning  from  a  balcony,  coquetting  with  a  fan  and 
dropping  arch  responses  to  the  "  caramel  phrases "  of  her 
guitar-tinkling  cavalier. 

"  You're  always  saying  you'd  die  for  me. 

I  doubt  it  nevertheless  ; 
But  prove  it  true  by  dying, 
And  then  I'll  answer  yes." 

For,  loving  as  they  are,  Spanish  sweethearts  take  naturally 
to  teasing.  "When  he  calls  me  his  Butterfly,  I  call  him  my 
Elephant.  Then  his  eyes  are  like  black  fire,  for  he  is  ashamed 
to  be  so  big,  but  in  a  twinkling  I  can  make  him  smile  again." 
The  scorn  of  these  dainty  creatures  for  the  graces  of  the 
ruling  sex  is  not  altogether  affected.  I  shall  not  forget  the 
expression  with  which  a  Sevillian  belle,  an  exquisite  dancer, 
watched  her  novio  as,  red  and  perspiring,  he  flung  his  stout 
legs  valiantly  through  the  mazes  of  the  jota.  "  Men  are  uglier 
than  ever  when  they  are  dancing,  aren't  they  ?  "  she  remarked 


346  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

to  me  with  all  the  serenity  in  the  world.  And  a  bewitching 
maiden  in  Madrid,  as  I  passed  some  favorable  comment  upon 
the  photographs  of  her  two  brothers,  gave  a  deprecatory  shrug. 
"Handsome?  Ca!"  (Which  is  wo  many  times  intensified.) 
"  But  they  are  not  so  ugly,  either,  — for  men" 

The  style  of  compliment  addressed  by  caballeros  to  senor- 
itas  is  not  like  "the  quality  of  mercy,"  but  very  much 
strained  indeed.  "  Your  eyes  are  two  runaway  stars,  that 
would  rather  shine  in  your  face  than  in  heaven,  but  your 
heart  is  harder  than  the  columns  of  Solomon's  temple.  Your 
father  was  a  confectioner  and  rubbed  your  lips  with  honey- 
cakes."  Little  Consuelo,  or  Lagrimas,  or  Milagros,  or 
Dolores,  or  Peligros  laughs  it  off,  "  Ah,  now  you  are  throw- 
ing flowers." 

The   coplas   of  the  wooer   below  the  balcony   are   usually 

sentimental. 

"  By  night  I  go  to  the  patio, 

And  my  tears  in  the  fountain  fall, 
To  think  that  I  love  you  so  much, 
And  you  love  me  not  at  all." 

"  Sweetheart,  little  Sweetheart  ! 

Love,  my  Love  ! 
I  can't  see  thy  eyes 

For  the  lashes  above. 
Eyes  black  as  midnight, 

Lashes  black  as  grief! 
O,  my  heart  is  thirsty 

As  a  summer  leaf." 

"If  I  could  but  be  buried 

In  the  dimple  of  your  chin, 


"O  la  Senorita!"  347 

I  would  wish,  Dear,  that  dying 
Might  at  once  begin.  " 

"  If  thou  wilt  be  a  white  dove, 

I  will  be  a  blue. 
We'll  put  our  bills  together 
And  coo,  coo,  coo." 

Sometimes  the  sentiment  is  relieved  by  a  realistic  touch. 

"  Very  anxious  is  the  flea, 

Caught  between  finger  and  thumb. 
More  anxious  I,  on  watch  for  thee, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  not  come." 

And  occasionally  the  lover,  flouted  overmuch,  retorts  in 
kind. 

"  Don't  blame  me  that  eyes  are  wet, 

For  I  only  pay  my  debt. 
I've  taught  you  to  cry  and  fret, 

But  first  you  taught  me  to  forget." 

"I'll  not  have  you,  Little  Torment, 
I  don't  want  you,  Little  Witch. 
Let  your  mother  light  four  candles 
And  stand  you  in  a  niche." 

The  average  Spaniard  is  well  satisfied  with  his  senora  as  she 
is.  He  did  her  extravagant  homage  as  a  suitor,  he  treats  her 
with  kindly  indulgence  as  a  husband,  but  he  expects  of  her  a 
life  utterly  bounded  by  the  casa.  "  What  is  a  woman  ?  "  we 
heard  one  say.  "  A  bottle  of  wine."  And  those  few  words 
tell  the  story  why,  with  all  their  charm,  home-love,  and  piety, 
the  Spanish  women  have  not  availed  to  keep  the  social  life  of 
the  Peninsula  sound  and  sweet. 


348  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

"  But  to  admire  them  as  our  gallants  do, 
'  Oh,  what  an  eye  she  hath!      Oh,  dainty  hand! 
Rare  foot  and  leg  ! '   and  leave  the  mind  respectless, 
This  is  a  plague  that  in  both  men  and  women 
Makes  such  pollution  of  our  earthly  being." 

The  life  of  the  convent  is  attractive  to  girls  of  mystic  tem- 
perament, like  the  Maria  of  Valdes,  but  many  of  these  lively 
daughters  of  the  sun  regard  it  with  frank  disfavor.  One  of 
the  songs  found  in  the  mouths  of  little  girls  all  over  the  Pen- 
insula is  amusingly  expressive  of  the  childish  aversion  to  so 
dull  a  destiny. 

' '  I  wanted  to  be  married 

To  a  sprightly  barber-lad> 
But  my  parents  wished  to  put  me 
In  the  convent  dim  and  sad. 

«'  One  afternoon  of  summer 

They  walked  me  out  in  state, 
And  as  we  turned  a  corner, 
I  saw  the  convent  gate. 

"  Out  poured  all  the  solemn  nuns 

In  black  from  toe  to  chin, 
Each  with  a  lighted  candle, 
And  made  me  enter  in. 

"  The  file  was  like  a  funeral; 

The  door  shut  out  the  day; 
They  sat  me  on  a  marble  stool 
And  cut  my  hair  away. 

"The  pendants  from  my  ears  they  took, 
And  the  ring  I  loved  to  wear, 


"O  la  Senorita!"  349 

But  the  hardest  loss  of  all  to  brook 
Was  my  mat  of  raven  hair. 

"  If  I  run  out  to  the  garden 

And  pluck  the  roses  red, 
I  have  to  kneel  in  church  until 
Twice  twenty  prayers  are  said. 

"  If  I  steal  up  to  the  tower 

And  clang  the  convent  bell, 
The  holy  Abbess  utters  words 
I  do  not  choose  to  tell. 

"  My  parents,  O  my  parents, 
Unkindly  have  you  done, 
For  I  was  never  meant  to  be 
A  dismal  little  nun." 

I  came  but  slightly  in  contact  with  Spanish  nuns.  Among 
the  figures  that  stand  out  clear  in  memory  are  a  kindly  old 
sister,  at  Seville,  in  the  Hospital  de  la  Caridad,  who  paused 
midway  in  her  exhibition  of  the  famous  Murillos  there  to  wipe 
her  eyes  and  grieve  that  we  were  Protestants,  and  an  austere, 
beautiful  woman  in  La  Cuna,  or  Foundling  Asylum  of  Seville, 
who  caressed  a  crying  baby  with  the  passionate  tenderness  of 
motherhood  denied.  The  merriest  Spanish  hermana  of  our 
acquaintance  we  encountered  on  the  French  side  of  the  Pyre- 
nees. At  Anglet,  halfway  between  Biarritz  and  Bayonne,  is 
the  Convent  of  the  Bernardines,  Silent  Sisters.  The  visitor 
sees  them  only  from  a  distance,  robed  in  white  flannel,  with 
large  white  crosses  gleaming  on  the  back  of  their  hooded 
capes.  These,  too,  were  originally  white,  and  the  hoods  so 
deep  that  not  even  the  profile  of  the  features  could  be  seen  ; 


350  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

but  the  French  Government,  disturbed  by  the  excessive  death- 
rate  in  this  order,  recently  had  the  audacity  to  interfere  and 
give  summary  orders  that  the  hoods  be  cut  away,  so  that  the 
healthful  sunshine  might  visit  those  pale  faces.  The  mandate 
was  obeyed,  but,  perhaps  in  sign  of  mournful  protest,  the  new 
hoods  and  capes  are  black  as  night.  These  women  Trappists 
may  recite  their  prayers  aloud,  as  they  work  in  field  or  garden, 
or  over  their  embroidery  frames,  but  they  speak  for  human 
hearing  only  once  a  year,  when  their  closest  family  friends 
may  visit  them  and  listen  through  a  grating  to  what  their 
disused  voices  may  yet  be  able  to  utter.  From  all  other  con- 
tact with  the  world  they  are  shielded  by  an  outpost  guard  of 
a  few  of  the  Servants  of  Mary,  an  industrious,  self-supporting 
sisterhood,  whose  own  convent,  half  a  mile  away,  is  a  refuge 
for  unwedded  mothers  and  a  home  for  unfathered  children. 
Hither  the  pitying  sisters  brought,  a  few  days  before  our  visit, 
a  wild-eyed  girl  whom  they  had  found  lying  on  one  of  the  sea 
rocks,  waiting  for  the  rising  tide  to  cover  her  and  her  shame 
together.  The  chief  treasure  of  this  nunnery,  one  regrets  to 
add,  is  the  polished  skull  of  Mary  Magdalene. 

That  one  of  the  Servants  of  Mary  who  showed  us  over  the 
Trappist  convent  was  a  bright-eyed  Spanish  dame  of  many 
winters,  as  natural  a  chatterbox  as  ever  gossiped  with  the 
neighbors  in  the  sun.  Her  glee  in  this  little  opportunity  for 
conversation  was  enough  to  wring  the  heart  of  any  lover  of 
old  ladies.  She  walked  as  slowly  as  possible  and  detained  us 
on  every  conceivable  pretext,  reaching  up  on  her  rheumatic 
tiptoes  to  pluck  us  red  and  white  camellias,  and  pointing  out, 
with  a  lingering  garrulity,  the  hardness  of  the  cots  in  the  bare, 
cold  little  cells,  the  narrowness  of  the  benches  in  the  austere 


"O  la  Senorita!"  351 

chapel,  and,  in  the  cheerless  dining  room,  the  floor  of  deep 
sand,  in  which  the  Bernardines  kneel  throughout  their  Friday 
dinner  of  bread  and  water.  Longest  of  all,  she  kept  us  in 
the  cemetery,  all  spick  and  span,  with  close-set  rows  of  name- 
less graves,  each  with  a  cross  shaped  upon  it  in  white  seashells. 
The  dear  old  soul,  in  her  coarse  blue  gown,  with  tidy  white 
kerchief  and  neatly  darned  black  hood  and  veil,  showed  us  the 
grave  of  her  own  sister,  adding,  proudly,  that  her  four  remain- 
ing sisters  were  all  cloistered  in  various  convents  of  Spain. 

"All  six  of  us  nuns,"  she  said,  "but  my  brother  —  no! 
He  has  the  dowries  of  us  all  and  lives  the  life  of  the  world. 
Just  think !  I  have  two  nephews  in  Toledo.  I  have  never 
seen  them.  My  sister's  grave  is  pretty,  is  it  not  ?  They  let 
me  put  flowers  there.  Oh,  there  are  many  families  in  Spain 
like  ours,  where  all  the  daughters  are  put  into  convents.  Spain 
is  a  very  religious  country.  The  sons  ?  Not  so  often.  Some- 
times, when  there  is  a  conscription,  many  young  men  become 
priests  to  escape  military  service  but  it  is  the  women  who 
are  most  devout  in  Spain." 

And  after  the  rustic  gate  was  shut  on  the  sleeping-place  of 
the  Bernardines,  scarcely  more  silent  and  more  dead  beneath 
the  sod  than  above  it,  she  still  detained  us  with  whispered  hints 
of  distinguished  Spanish  ladies  among  those  ghostly,  far-ofF 
figures  that,  pitchfork  or  pruning  knife  in  hand,  would  fall 
instantly  upon  their  knees  at  the  ringing  of  the  frequent  bell 
for  prayers.  Spanish  ladies,  too,  had  given  this  French  con- 
vent many  of  its  most  costly  treasures.  We  said  good-by  to 
our  guide  near  an  elaborate  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  which  a 
bereaved  Spanish  mother  had  erected  with  the  graven  request 
that  the  nuns  pray  for  the  soul  of  her  beloved  dead. 


352  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

u  Even  we  Sen  ants  of  Mary  are  not  allowed  to  talk  much 
here,"  said  in  parting  this  most  sociable  of  saints,  clinging  to 
us  with  a  toil-roughened,  brown  old  hand.  "  It  is  a  holy  life, 
but  quiet  —  very  quiet.  I  have  been  here  forty-four  years 
this  winter.  My  name  is  Sister  Solitude." 

The  nun  whom  I  knew  best  was  an  exquisite  little  sister 
just  back  from  Manila.  During  several  months  I  went  to 
her,  in  a  Paris  convent,  twice  or  three  times  a  week,  for  Span- 
ish lessons.  The  reception  room  in  which  I  used  to  await 
her  coming  shone  not  as  with  soap  and  water,  but  as  with  the 
very  essence  of  purity.  The  whiteness  of  the  long,  fine  cur- 
tains had  something  celestial  about  it.  The  only  book  in 
sight,  a  bundle  of  well-worn  leaves  bound  in  crimson  plush 
and  placed  with  precision  in  the  centre  of  the  gleaming 
mahogany  table,  was  a  volume  of  classic  French  sermons,  — 
the  first  two  being  on  Demons,  and  the  next  on  Penance. 
Further  than  this  I  never  read  ;  for  very  punctually  the  slight 
figure,  in  violet  skirt  and  bodice,  with  a  white  cross  embroid- 
ered upon  the  breast,  swept  softly  down  the  hall.  A  heavy 
purple  cord  and  a  large-beaded  rosary  depended  from  the  waist. 
In  conversation  she  often  raised  her  hand  to  press  her  ring, 
sign  of  her  sacred  espousals,  to  her  lips.  Her  type  of  face  I 
often  afterward  saw  in  Spain,  but  never  again  so  perfect.  Her 
complexion  was  the  richest  southern  brown,  the  eyes  brighten- 
ing in  excitement  to  vivid,  flashing  black.  The  eyebrows, 
luxuriant  even  to  heaviness,  were  nevertheless  delicately  out- 
lined, and  the  straight  line  of  the  white  band  emphasized  their 
graceful  arch.  The  nose  was  massive  for  a  woman's  face, 
and  there  was  a  slight  shading  of  hair  upon  the  upper  lip. 
The  mouth  and  chin,  though  so  daintily  moulded,  were  strong. 


"O  la  Senorita  !  "  353 

Not  the  meek,  religious  droop  of  the  eyelids  could  mask  the 
fire,  vigor,  vitality,  intensity,  that  lay  stored  like  so  much 
electricity  behind  the  tranquil  convent  look. 

We  would  go  for  the  lesson  to  a  severe  little  chamber, 
whose  only  ornament  was  a  crucifix  of  olive  wood  fastened 
against  the  wall.  Then  how  those  velvet  eyes  would  glow 
and  sparkle  in  the  eagerness  of  rushing  speech  !  The  little 
sister  loved  to  tell  of  her  Manila  experience,  almost  a  welcome 
break,  I  fancied,  in  the  monotonous  peace  of  cloister  life.  All 
that  Sunday  morning,  when  the  battle  was  on,  the  nuns  main- 
tained their  customary  services,  hearing  above  their  prayers 
and  chants  and  the  solemn  diapason  of  the  organ,  the  boom, 
boom,  boom  of  our  wicked  American  cannon.  For,  accord- 
ing to  this  naive  historian,  Catholic  Spain,  best  beloved  of 
Our  Lady  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  had  labored  long 
in  the  Philippines  to  Christianize  the  heathen,  when  suddenly, 
in  the  midst  of  those  pious  labors  with  which  she  was  too 
preoccupied  to  think  of  fitting  out  men-of-war  and  drilling 
gunners,  a  pirate  fleet  bore  down  upon  her  and  overthrew  at 
once  the  Spanish  banner  and  the  Holy  Cross.  Tears  sparkled 
through  flame  as  the  hermanita  told  of  her  beautiful  convent 
home,  now  half  demolished.  The  sisters  did  not  abandon  it 
until  six  weeks  after  the  battle,  but  as  the  nunnery  stood  out- 
side the  city  walls,  their  superior  judged  it  no  safe  abode  for 
Spanish  ladies,  and  ordered  them  away.  The  French  consul 
arranged  for  their  transport  to  Hongkong  on  a  dirty  little  ves- 
sel, where  they  had  to  stay  on  deck,  the  twenty-seven  of  them, 
during  their  week's  voyage,  suffering  from  lack  of  proper  shel- 
ter and  especially  from  thirst,  the  water  supply  running  short 
the  second  day  out.  But  all  this  was  joy  of  martyrdom. 

2A 


354  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

u  Is  not  Hongkong  a  very  strange  city  ? "  I  asked. 
"Did  it  seem  to  you  more  like  Manila  than  like  Paris  and 
Madrid  ?  " 

The  little  sister's  voice  was  touched  with  prompt  rebuke. 

"  You  speak  after  the  fashion  of  the  world.  All  cities  look 
alike  to  us.  Ours  is  the  life  of  the  convent.  It  matters 
nothing  where  the  convent  stands." 

Stimulated  by  reproof,  I  waxed  impertinent.  "Not  even 
if  it  stands  within  range  of  the  guns  ?  Now,  truly,  truly, 
were  you  not  the  least  bit  frightened  that  morning  of  the 
battle  ?  " 

The  sunny  southern  smile  was  a  fleeting  one,  and  left  a 
reminiscent  shadow  in  the  eyes. 

"  Frightened  ?  Oh,  no !  There  were  no  guns  between  us 
and  Paradise.  From  early  dawn  we  heard  the  firing,  and  hour 
after  hour  we  knelt  before  the  altar  and  prayed  to  the  Mother 
of  God  to  comfort  the  souls  of  the  brave  men  who  were  dying 
for  la  patria ;  but  we  were  not  frightened." 

There  were  strange  jostlings  of  ideas  in  that  cloistered  cell, 
especially  when  the  dusk  had  stolen  in  between  our  bending 
faces  and  the  Spanish  page. 

Once  we  talked  of  suicide.  That  morning  it  had  been  a 
wealthy  young  Parisian  who  had  paid  its  daily  tribute  to  the 
Seine. 

"  What  a  horror  !  "  gasped  the  little  sister,  clasping  her 
slender  hands  against  her  breast.  "  It  is  a  mortal  sin.  And 
how  foolish  !  For  if  life  is  hard  to  bear,  surely  perdition  is 
harder." 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  so  strange  in  case  of  the  poor," 
I  responded,  waiving  theology.  "  But  a  rich  man,  though  his 


"O  la  Sefiorita!"  355 

own  happiness  fails,  has  still  the  power  of  making  others 
happy." 

"  Ah,  but  I  understand  !  "  cried  Little  Manila,  her  eyes 
like  stars  in  the  dimness.  "  The  devil  does  not  see  truth  as 
the  blessed  spirits  do,  but  sees  falsehoods  even  as  the  world. 
And  so  in  his  blindness  he  believes  the  soul  of  a  rich  man 
more  precious  than  the  souls  of  the  poor,  and  tempts  the  rich 
man  more  than  others.  Yet  when  the  devil  has  that  soul, 
will  he  find  it  made  of  gold  ?  " 

One  chilly  November  afternoon,  gray  with  a  fog  that  had 
utterly  swallowed  the  Eiffel  Tower  above  its  first  huge  up- 
rights, which  straddled  disconsolately  like  legs  forsaken  of 
their  giant,  she  explained  in  a  sudden  rush  of  words  why  Spain 
had  been  worsted  in  the  war  with  America. 

"  Whom  the  Lord  loveth,  He  chasteneth.  As  with  per- 
sons, so  with  nations.  Those  that  are  not  of  His  fold  He 
gives  over  to  their  fill  of  vainglory  and  greed  and  power,  but 
the  Catholic  nations  He  cleanses  again  and  again  in  the  bitter 
waters  of  defeat  —  ah,  in  fire  and  blood  !  Yet  the  end  is  not 
yet.  The  rod  of  His  correction  is  upon  Spain  at  this  hour, 
and  the  Faithful  are  glad  in  the  very  heart  of  sorrow,  for  even 
so  shall  her  sins  be  purged  away,  even  so  shall  her  coldness  be 
quickened,  even  so  shall  she  be  made  ready  for  her  everlasting 
recompense." 

"  And  the  poor  Protestant  nations  ?  "  I  asked,  between  a 
smile  and  a  sigh. 

The  little  sister  smiled  back,  but  the  Catholic  eyes,  for 
all  their  courtly  graciousness,  were  implacable. 

She  was  of  a  titled  family  and  had  passed  a  petted  child- 
hood in  Madrid.  There  she  had  been  taken,  on  her  seventh 


356  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

birthday,  to  a  corrida  de  toros^  but  remembered  it  unpleasantly, 
not  because  of  the  torture  inflicted  on  the  horses  and  bulls, 
but  because  she  had  been  frightened  by  the  great  beasts, 
with  their  tossing  horns  and  furious  bellowing.  Horns 
always  made  her  think  of  the  devil,  she  said.  From  her 
babyhood  she  had  been  afraid  of  horns. 

One  day  a  mischievous  impulse  led  me  to  inquire,  in 
connection  with  a  chat  about  the  Escorial,  "  And  how  do 
you  like  Philip  II?" 

The  black  eyes  shot  one  ray  of  sympathetic  merriment, 
but  the  Spaniard  and  the  nun  were  on  their  guard. 

11  He  was  a  very  good  Catholic,"  she  replied  demurely. 

"  So  was  Isabel  la  Catblica"  I  responded.  "  But  don't 
you  think  she  may  have  been  a  trifle  more  agreeable  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  was  a  little  more  simpatica"  admitted  the 
kermanita,  but  that  was  her  utmost  concession.  She  would 
not  even  allow  that  Philip  had  a  sorry  end. 

"  If  his  body  groaned,  his  soul  was  communing  with  the 
Blessed  Saints  and  paid  no  heed." 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  which  led  under  the  great 
garden  wall  to  the  heavily  barred  gate  of  the  convent  was  a 
flower-stand.  The  shrewd,  swift-tongued  Madame  in  charge 
well  knew  the  look  of  the  unwary,  and  usually  succeeded  in  sell- 
ing me  a  cluster  of  drooping  blossoms  at  twice  the  value  of 
the  fresh,  throwing  in  an  extra  leaf  or  stem  at  the  close  of 
the  bargain  with  an  air  of  prodigal  benevolence.  The  hand- 
ful of  flowers  would  be  smilingly  accepted  by  the  little  sister, 
but  instantly  laid  aside  nor  favored  with  glance  or  touch 
until  the  close  of  the  visit,  when  they  would  be  lifted  again 
with  a  winsome  word  of  acknowledgment  and  carried  away, 


"O  la  Senorita!"  357 

probably  to  spend  their  sweetness  at  the  marble  feet  of  the 
Virgin.  In  vain.  I  tried  to  coax  from  this  scorner  of  God's 
earth  some  sign  of  pleasure  in  the  flowers  themselves. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  tea-roses  ? "  "  Ah,  el  mundo  pasa. 
But  their  color  is  exquisite." 

Yet  her  eyes  did  not  turn  to  the  poor  posy  for  the  two 
hours  following. 

"  This  mignonette  has  only  the  grace  of  sweetness." 

"  It  is  a  delicate  scent,  but  it  will  not  last.  El  mundo 
pasa" 

She  held  the  sprays  at  arm's  length  for  a  moment,  and  then 
laid  them  down  on  a  mantel  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  sorry  these  violets  are  not  fresher." 

"  But  no  !  The  touch  of  Time  has  not  yet  found  them. 
Still,  it  is  only  a  question  of  to-morrow.  El  mundo  pasa" 

"Yes,  the  world  passes.  But  is  it  not  good  while  it 
lasts  ? " 

u  The  world  good  !  No,  no,  and  a  thousand  times  no. 
Behold  it  now  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  —  wars 
and  sorrows  and  bitter  discontents,  evil  deeds  and  evil  pas- 
sions everywhere.  Do  you  see  the  peace  of  Christ  in  the 
faces  on  the  Paris  streets  ?  The  blossoms  of  this  earth,  the 
pleasures  of  this  world,  the  affections  of  this  life,  all  have 
the  taste  of  death.  But  here  in  God's  own  garden  we  live  even 
now  His  everlasting  life." 

"  You  are  always  glad  of  your  choice  ?  You  never  miss 
the  friends  of  your  childhood  ?  " 

"  Glad,  glad,  glad.  Glad  of  my  choice.  Glad  to  see  no 
more  the  faces  of  father  and  mother.  And  for  them,  too,  it 
is  great  joy.  For  Catholic  parents  it  is  supreme  delight  to 


358  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

give  up  their  children  to  the  Holy  Church.  The  ways  of 
the  world  are  full  of  slippery  places,  but  when  they  leave  us 
here,  they  know  that  our  feet  are  set  on  the  very  threshold 
of  heaven." 

Sometimes  the  slight  form  shivered  in  the  violet  habit,  and 
the  dark  foreign  face  looked  out  with  touching  weariness 
from  its  frame  of  soft  white  folds. 

"  You  are  cold  ?  You  are  tired  ?  Will  you  take  my 
cloak  ?  Were  the  children  troublesome  to-day  ?  " 

It  was  always  the  'same  answer :  "  No  importa.  No  im- 
porta.  It  matters  not.  Our  life  is  not  the  life  of  flesh  and 
blood." 

And  indeed,  as  I  saw  her  in  the  Christmas  service  among 
the  other  Spanish  sisters,  those  lovely  figures  in  white  and 
violet  making  obeisance  before  the  altar  until  their  veiled 
foreheads  almost  touched  the  pavement,  bowing  and  rising 
again  with  the  music  like  a  field  of  lilies  swaying  in  the  breeze, 
I  felt  that  she  was  already  a  being  of  another  world,  before 
she  had  known  this.  Over  her  had  been  chanted  the  prayers 
for  the  dead.  The  strange  ceremony  of  taking  the  veil  had 
been  her  burial  rite.  The  convent  seemed  a  ghost  land 
between  earth  and  heaven. 

My  hermanita  belonged  to  one  of  the  teaching  orders,  and 
despite  the  strange  blanks  in  her  knowledge,  for  secular  lore 
had  been,  so  far  as  possible,  excluded  from  her  education,  she 
was  representative  of  the  finer  and  more  intelligent  class  of 
Spanish  nuns.  In  Granada  I  heard  of  the  nuns  chiefly  as  the 
makers  of  those  delicious  dukes,  sugared  fruits,  which  were 
indispensable  to  a  child's  saint-day,  and  there  I  was  taught  the 
scoffing  epitaph :  — 


THE  ROYAI.  FAMILY 


"  O  la  Senorita  !  "  359 

"  Here  lies  Sister  Claribel, 
Who  made  sweetmeats  very  well, 
And  passed  her  life  in  pious  follies, 
Such  as  dressing  waxen  dollies." 

To  the  spinster  outside  the  nunnery  Spain  has  little  to 
offer.  Small  heed  is  paid  to  her  except  by  St.  Elias,  who,  on 
one  day  of  Holy  Week,  walks  about  all  Seville  with  a  pen  in 
his  hand,  peering  up  at  the  balconies  and  making  note  of  the 
old  maids.  Since  Andalusia  expresses  the  theory  of  counter- 
parts by  saying,  "  Every  one  has  somewhere  in  the  world 
his  half  orange,"  the  spinster  can  hardly  hope  for  a  well- 
rounded  life.  Careers  are  not  open  to  her.  There  are 
"  advanced  women  "  in  Spain,  the  most  eminent  being  Emelia 
Pardo  Bazan,  novelist,  lecturer,  editor,  who  advocates  for 
women  equal  educational  and  political  privileges  with  men, 
but  who  has  not  yet  succeeded  in  opening  the  doors.  The 
voice  of  Spanish  women,  nevertheless,  is  sometimes  heard  by 
Spanish  statesmen,  as  when  delegation  after  delegation  of 
senoras  who  had  relatives  held  as  prisoners  by  the  Filipinos 
invaded  the  senate-house  with  petitions  until  they  could  no 
longer  be  ignored. 

A  more  thorough  and  liberal  education  for  Spanish  women 
is  the  pressing  need  to-day.  There  is,  of  course,  great  lack 
of  primary  schooling.  A  girl  in  her  late  teens,  wearing  the 
prettiest  of  embroidered  aprons  and  with  the  reddest  of  roses 
in  her  hair,  once  appealed  to  me  in  Toledo  for  help.  She 
had  been  sent  from  a  confectioner's  to  deliver  a  tray  of 
wheaten  rolls  at  a  given  address,  and  she  could  read  neither 
the  names  of  streets  nor  the  numbers  of  houses.  But  the 
higher  education  will  carry  the  lower  with  it.  Spain  is  de- 


360  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

generate  in  this  regard.  The  Moors  used  to  have  at  Cordova 
an  academy  for  girls,  where  science,  mathematics,  and  history 
were  taught.  Schools  for  Spanish  girls  at  present  impart 
little  more  than  reading  and  writing,  needle-work,  the  cate- 
chism, the  four  rules  of  arithmetic,  and  some  slight  notion  of 
geography.  French  and  music,  recognized  accomplishments, 
are  learned  by  daughters  of  the  privileged  class  from  their 
governesses  or  in  the  convents.  Missionary  work  in  Spain 
has  largely  concerned  itself  with  the  educational  question, 
and  Mrs.  Gulick's  project  for  the  establishment  of  a  woman's 
college  in  Madrid,  a  college  without  distinction  of  creed, 
is  the  fruit  of  long  experience.  Little  by  little  she  has 
proven  the  intellectual  ability  of  Spanish  girls.  She  established 
the  International  Institute  at  San  Sebastian,  secured  State 
examination  for  her  ninas  and  State  recognition  of  their 
eminent  success,  and  even  won  for  a  few  of  them  admission 
to  the  University  of  Madrid,  where  they  maintained  the  highest 
rank  throughout  the  course.  All  that  Spanish  girls  need  is 
opportunity. 

But  if  the  senoritas  are  so  charming  now,  with  their  roses 
and  their  graces  and  their  fans,  why  not  leave  them  as  they 
are,  a  page  of  mediaeval  poetry  in  this  strenuous  modern 
world  ?  If  only  they  were  dolls  outright  and  did  not  suffer 
so  !  When  life  goes  hard  with  these  high-spirited,  incapable 
creatures,  it  goes  terribly  hard.  I  can  see  yet  the  tears  scorch 
in  the  proud  eyes  of  three  undowered  sisters,  slaving  at  their 
one  art  of  embroidery  from  early  till  late  for  the  miserable 
pittance  that  it  brought  them.  "We  shall  rest  when  we 
are  dead,"  said  the  youngest.  The  absolute  lack  of  future 
for  these  brave,  sensitive  girls,  well-born,  well-bred,  natu- 


"O  la  Senorita!"  361 

rally  as  keen  as  the  keenest,  but  more  ignorant,  in  matters 
of  common  education,  than  the  children  of  our  lowest  gram- 
mar grade,  is  heart-breaking.  If  such  girls  were  stupid, 
shallow,  coarse,  it  would  be  easier;  but  the  Spanish  type  is 
finely  strung.  Once  I  saw  an  impulsive  beauty  fly  into  that 
gust  of  angry  passion  which  Spaniards  term  the  rabia  espanola. 
A  clumsy,  well-intentioned  young  Austrian  had  said  a  teasing 
word,  and  in  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  girl,  overwrought 
with  secret  toils  and  anxieties,  was  in  a  tempest  of  tears ;  but 
the  wrath  that  blazed  across  them  burned  the  offender 
crimson.  The  poor  fellow  sent  for  his  case  of  choice 
Asturian  cider,  cooling  in  the  balcony,  read  the  evening  news 
aloud  and  discoursed  on  the  value  of  self-control,  but  not 
even  these  tactful  attentions  could  undo,  for  that  evening  at 
least,  the  work  of  his  blundering  jest.  The  girl  flashed  away 
to  her  chamber,  her  handkerchief  bitten  through  and  through, 
and  the  quick  fierce  sound  of  her  sobs  came  to  me  across  the 
hall  deep  into  the  night. 

Wandering  over  Spain  I  found  everywhere  these  winning, 
vivid,  helpless  girls,  versed  in  needlework  and  social  graces, 
but  knowing  next  to  nothing  of  history,  literature,  science,  all 
that  pertains  to  intellectual  culture.  Some  were  hungry  to 
learn.  More  did  not  dream  of  the  world  of  thought  as  a 
possible  world  for  them.  Among  these  it  was  delightful  to 
meet,  scattered  like  precious  seed  throughout  the  Peninsula, 
the  graduates  of  the  International  Institute.  So  far  as  a 
stranger  could  see,  education  had  enhanced  in  them  the 
Spanish  radiance  and  charm,  while  arming  these  with  wisdom, 
power,  and  resource. 


XXII 

ACROSS    THE    BASQUE    PROVINCES 

"  The  Oak  Tree  of  Guernica 

Within  its  foliage  green 
Embraces  the  bright  honor 

Of  all  the  Basque  demesne. 
For  this  we  count  thee  holy, 

Our  ancient  seal  and  sign  ; 
The  fibres  of  our  freedom 

Are  interlaced  with  thine. 

"  Castile's  most  haughty  tyrants 

Beneath  thy  solemn  shade 
Have  sworn  to  keep  the  charter 

Our  fearless  fathers  made ; 
For  noble  on  our  mountains 
Is  he  who  yokes  the  ox, 
And  equal  to  a  monarch 
/  The  shepherd  of  the  flocks." 

—  National  Song  of  the  Basque t. 

IT  did  not  seem  to  me  historically  respectful  to  take  leave 
of  Spain  without  having  made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine 
of  Santiago.     A  dauntless  friend  crossed  the  sea  to  bear 
me  company.      Hygienic  pilgrim  that  she  is,  she  came  equipped 
not  with  cockle  shells  and   sandal  shoon,  but  with  sleeping 
bags,  coffee,  and  cereals.    Many  a  morning,  in  traversing  those 
northern  provinces,  where   the   scenery  was   better  than  the 
breakfast,  we  blessed  her  boxes  of  "  grape  nuts,"  and  many  a 
night,  doomed  to  penitential  beds,  we  were  thankful  to  intrench 

362 


Across  the  Basque   Provinces  363 

ourselves  against  the  stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  insects 
in  those  spacious  linen  bags,  that  gather  close  about  the  neck, 
or,  when  dangers  thicken,  above  the  head,  leaving  only  a 
loophole  for  the  breath. 

Our  point  of  departure  was  that  city  of  nature's  fancy- 
work,  San  Sebastian.  Then,  in  the  early  half  of  July,  it  was 
all  alive  with  expectancy,  looking  every  day  for  the  coming 
of  the  Court.  It  is  reputed  to  be  the  cleanest  town  of  the 
Peninsula,  and  is,  in  truth,  as  bright  as  a  wave-washed  pebble. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  a  favorite  waltz  hall  of  the  fleas,  which 
shamelessly  obtrude  themselves  even  into  conversation. 

The  chief  summer  industry  of  San  Sebastian  is  sea-bathing. 
The  soldiers  begin  it  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  marching 
by  regiments  down  to  the  Concha,  clearing  for  action,  and 
striking  out  into  the  gentle  surf,  all  in  simultaneous  obedience 
to  successive  words  of  command.  Some  two  hours  later  teams 
of  oxen  draw  scores  of  jaunty  bathing  cars  down  near  the 
white  lip  of  this  opalescent  shell  of  water,  and  there  the  long 
day  through  all  ages,  sizes,  and  ranks  of  humanity  sport  in  the 
curling  foam  or  swim  far  out  into  the  sparkling  bay. 

San  Sebastian  is  the  capital  of  Guipuzcoa,  one  of  the  three 
Basque  provinces.  These  lie  among  the  Cantabrian  moun- 
tains, and  are  delightfully  picturesque  with  wheat-growing 
valleys  and  well-wooded  heights.  As  the  train  wandered  on, 
in  its  pensive  Spanish  fashion,  we  found  ourselves  now  in 
Scotland,  in  a  beautiful  waste  of  heather  and  gorse,  now  amid 
the  English  ivy  and  hawthorn,  hearing  the  song  of  the  English 
robin,  and  now  in  our  own  New  England,  with  the  hilly 
reaches  of  apple  orchards  and  the  fields  upon  fields  of  tasselled 
Indian  maize. 


364  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

The  Basques  are  a  thrifty  folk,  and  have  cultivated  their 
scant  acres  to  the  utmost.  The  valleys  are  planted  with 
corn,  the  lower  hills  are  ridged  and  terraced  for  a  variety 
of  crops.  Above  are  walnuts  and  chestnuts,  and  the  flintiest 
summits  serve  for  pasturage.  It  was  curious  to  see  men  at 
work  on  those  steep  slopes  that  had  been  scooped  out  into  a 
succession  of  narrow  shelves,  and  more  strange  yet  to  catch 
glimpses  of  peasants  ploughing  the  very  mountain  top,  pic- 
turesque figures  against  the  sky. 

The  reaping  is  of  the  cleanest.  The  harvest  fields  have  a 
neat,  scoured  look,  as  if  the  women  had  been  over  them  with 
scrubbing  brushes.  Yet  this  utilitarian  soil  admits  of  oaks 
and  beeches,  ferns  and  clover,  morning  glories,  dandelions, 
pimpernel,  and  daisies. 

All  that  sunny  morning  the  train  swung  us  blithely  on  from 
one  charm  of  the  eyes  to  another  —  from  a  ruined  watch- 
tower,  where  red-handed  Carlists  had  crouched,  to  a  bright- 
kerchiefed  maiden  singing  amid  her  beehives ;  from  a  range 
of  abrupt  peaks,  cleft  by  deep  gorges,  to  sycamore-shaded  by- 
ways and  poplar-bordered  streams ;  from  a  village  graveyard, 
the  pathetic  little  parallelogram  enclosed  in  high  gray  walls 
and  dim  with  cypress  shadows,  to  a  tumbling,  madcap  torrent 
spanned  by  a  time-gnawed  Roman  arch.  Shooting  the  heart 
of  some  black  hill,  the  train  would  run  out  on  a  mere  ledge 
above  a  valley  hamlet,  and  from  pure  inquisitiveness,  appar- 
ently, ramble  all  around  the  circle,  peering  down  from  every 
point  of  view  on  the  cluster  of  great,  patriarchal  houses,  some- 
times of  timber  and  plaster,  more  often  of  stone,  where  whole 
clans  dwell  together  under  the  same  red-tiled  roof.  Queer 
old  houses  these,  occasionally  topped  with  blue  chimneys, 


Across  the  Basque  Provinces  365 

and  now  and  then  with  a  fantastic  coat  of  arms  sculptured  over 
the  door,  or  a  fresco  of  saints  and  devils  blazoned  all  across 
the  front.  Sometimes  freshly  whitewashed,  these  Basque 
houses  have  more  often  a  weather-worn,  dingy  look,  but,  how- 
ever black  the  timbers,  lines  of  clean  linen  flutter  airily  from 
roofs  and  balconies. 

They  are  a  decent,  self-respecting,  prosperous  people,  these 
Basque  mountaineers,  of  whose  history  my  companion  told 
me  stirring  tales.  They  are  supposed,  though  not  without 
dispute,  to  be  the  oldest  race  in  Europe,  descendants  of  those 
original  Iberians  whom  the  westward-trooping  Aryans  drove 
into  the  fastnesses  of  the  Pyrenees.  They  have  their  own 
language,  of  Asiatic  type.  They  themselves  believe  that  it 
was  spoken  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  There  are  some 
twenty-five  dialects  of  the  Vascuense,  and  it  is  so  difficult 
for  foreigners  that  even  George  Borrow  spoke  it  "  with 
considerable  hesitation,"  and  one  exhausted  student,  aban- 
doning the  struggle,  declared  that  the  words  were  all  "  written 
Solomon  and  pronounced  Nebuchadnezzar."  The  Basques 
attribute  their  hardy  virtues  to  the  crabbedness  of  their 
speech,  telling  how  the  devil,  after  slaving  over  their 
vocabulary  for  seven  years,  had  succeeded  in  learning  only 
three  words,  and  threw  up  his  lesson  in  a  pet,  so  that  to  this 
day  he  remains  unable  to  meddle  with  their  peasant  piety. 
What  little  literature  there  is  in  the  Basque  language  is 
naturally  of  the  popular  cast  —  hero  songs,  dancing  songs, 
dirges,  hymns,  and  folk-lore. 

The  Basques  are  noted  for  their  passionate  love  of  liberty. 
The  sturdy  peasant  is  lord  of  his  own  rugged  farm,  and  insists 
on  tilling  it  in  his  own  primitive  way,  breaking  the  soil  with 


366  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

rude  mattock  more  often  than  with  plough.  An  Englisn 
engineer,  laying  a  railroad  through  Alava,  tried  his  best  to 
make  his  men  abandon  their  slow,  laborious  method  of 
carrying  the  earth  in  baskets  on  their  heads.  He  finally 
had  all  the  baskets  removed  by  night,  and  wheelbarrows 
left  in  their  places.  But  the  unalterable  Basques  set  the 
loaded  wheelbarrows  on  their  heads,  and  staggered  about 
beneath  these  awkward  burdens  until,  for  very  shame,  he 
had  to  give  them  back  their  baskets. 

The  peasant  drives  over  the  mountain  roads  in  a  ponderous 
ox-cart,  with  two  clumsy  disks  of  wood  for  wheels.  The 
platform  is  wrought  of  rough-hewn  beams,  five  or  seven,  the 
middle  one  running  forward  to  serve  as  pole.  All  the  struc- 
ture, except  the  iron  tires  and  nails,  is  of  wood,  and  the  solid 
wooden  wheels,  as  the  massive  axle  to  which  they  are  riveted 
turns  over  and  over,  make  a  most  horrible  squeaking.  It  is  a 
sound  dear  to  the  peasantry,  for  they  believe  the  oxen  like  it, 
and,  moreover,  that  it  frightens  away  the  devil ;  but  once  upon 
a  time  a  town  of  advanced  views  voted  a  fine  of  five  dollars 
for  any  man  who  should  bring  this  musical  abomination  within 
its  limits.  Thereupon  a  freeborn  Basque  rose  with  the  dawn, 
selected  his  best  carved  oaken  yoke,  draped  the  red-stained 
sheepskin  a  trifle  more  carefully  than  usual  above  the  patient 
eyes  of  his  great  smooth  oxen,  and  took  his  way,  "  squeakity- 
squeak,  squeakity-squeak,"  straight  to  the  door  of  the  Ayunta- 
miento,  city  hall,  where  he  paid  his  twenty-five  pesetas,  and 
then  devoted  the  rest  of  the  day  to  driving  all  about  the 
streets,  squeaking  out  his  money's  worth.  This  is  no  servile 
temper,  and  it  was  not  until  our  own  generation  that  the  dearly 
cherished  liberties  of  the  Basques  %were  wrested  away. 


Across  the   Basque  Provinces  367 

These  warders  of  the  Pyrenees,  for  the  Basques  of  Navarre 
and  those  now  known  as  French  Basques  must  not  be  forgot- 
ten, did  good  service  in  helping  the  Visigoths  beat  back  the 
northward-pressing  Moors  and  the  southward-pressing  Franks; 
but  when  the  Basque  provinces  of  Spain  were  incorporated 
with  Leon  and  Navarre,  and  later  with  Castile,  the 
mountaineers  stood  stubbornly  for  their  fu'eros,  or  peculiar 
rights. 

My  comrade's  lecture  had  reached  this  point,  when,  finding 
ourselves  at  Amorebieta,  in  the  Province  of  Vizcaya,  or  Bis- 
cay, we  suddenly  descended  from  the  train,  and  handed  our 
bags  to  an  honest  Basque  porter,  who  deposited  them  on  the 
floor  of  an  open  waiting  room,  in  full  reach  of  an  honest 
Basque  population.  For  ourselves,  we  turned  our  faces 
toward  the  centre  of  Vizcayan  glory,  the  famous  Tree  of 
Guernica.  We  entered  a  rustic  train,  that  seemed  entirely 
undecided  which  way  to  go.  The  station  agent  blew  a  little 
tin  horn,  green  meadows  and  wattled  fences  began  to  glide 
past  the  car  windows,  and  the  interrupted  discourse  was  re- 
sumed. 

The  lawmakers  of  Vizcaya  were  duly  chosen  by  their 
fellow-nobles,  for  every  Basque  held  the  rank  of  hidalgo,  or 
"son  of  somebody."  The  deputies  met  every  two  years  in 
the  village  of  Guernica,  sitting  on  stone  benches  in  the  open 
air  beneath  the  sacred  oak,  and  there  elected  the  Senores  de 
Vizcaya.  Even  the  kings  of  Spain  were  allowed  no  grander 
title,  but  had  to  come  to  the  Tree  of  Guernica,  at  first  in  per- 
son, later  by  deputy,  and  there  swear  to  observe  the  fu eras. 
To  this  green  shadow  came  the  peasant  from  his  lonely 
farm-house,  high  on  the  mountainside,  to  answer  before  his 


368  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

peers  to  such  charges  as  might  be  brought  against  him ;  for 
within  the  sanctuary  of  his  home  the  law  could  lay  no  hand 
on  him  or  his. 

It  was  the  Carlist  wars  that  changed  all  this.  The  fu'eros, 
of  which  a  list  dating  from  1342  is  still  extant,  granted  the 
Basque  provinces  a  Republican  Constitution  that  almost  real- 
ized an  ideal  democracy,  with  immunity  from  taxes  save  for 
their  own  needs,  and  from  military  service  beyond  their  own 
boundaries.  But  when  the  dynastic  strife  broke  out,  the 
Basques  put  on  the  white  cap  of  Don  Carlos  and  bore  the 
brunt  of  the  conflict.  We  had  already  passed  through 
Vergara,  where,  in  1839,  Espartero  ended  the  first  Carlist 
war  by  a  treaty  which  compelled  the  Basques  to  lay  down 
their  arms.  But  the  cost  of  this  rebellion  was  paid  in  blood. 
Their  political  status  was  practically  unaffected.  At  the 
close  of  the  second  Carlist  war,  in  1876,  Alfonso  XII 
signalized  his  victory  by  meting  out  to  them  a  terrible 
punishment,  abrogating  the  precious  fu'eros  that  the  Tree 
of  Guernica  had  guarded  for  so  many  centuries.  The 
Government  imposed,  moreover,  its  salt  and  tobacco  mo- 
nopolies, and  made  the  Basques  subject  to  military  con- 
scription. At  every  station  we  saw  Spain's  Vizcayan 
soldiers,  red-capped  and  red-trousered,  with  blue-belted  frock 
coats,  under  which  beat  hearts  of  doubtful  loyalty.  The 
son  of  Alfonso  XII  will  have  to  reckon  with  the  Basques, 
when  the  third  Carlist  war  shall  be  declared,  but  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  the  fu'eros,  which  Don  Carlos,  of  course, 
promises  to  restore,  will  ever  come  home  to  nest  again  in  the 
Guernica  Oak. 

My  erudite  fellow-vagabond  was  just  pointing  out  the  typi- 


Across  the  Basque  Provinces  369 

cal  shape  of  the  Basque  head,  with  its  broad  forehead,  long, 
narrowing  face,  curved  nose,  and  pointed  chin,  when  we 
reached  Guernica.  Such  a  sweet  and  tranquil  village  as  it  is, 
set  in  the  beauty  of  the  hills,  with  the  dignity  and  pathos 
of  its  history  pervading  every  hushed,  old-fashioned  street ! 
The  guide,  whom  two  affable  ladies,  sharers  of  our  carriage 
in  the  little  picnic  train,  had  taken  pains  to  look  up  for  us  at 
the  station,  was  not,  we  judged,  a  favorable  specimen  of  the 
haughty  Basque  hidalgo.  He  was  a  dull,  mumbling,  slouchy 
lad,  who  sunk  his  voice  to  an  awed  whisper  as  we  passed  the 
escutcheon-carved  palace  of  a  count.  But  he  led  us  by 
pleasant  ways  to  the  modern  Casa  de  'Juntas,  or  Senate  House, 
where  we  were  shown  the  assembly  room,  with  its  altar  for 
mass,  the  library  and  other  apartments,  together  with  the  por- 
traits of  the  twenty-six  first  Senores  de  Vizcaya,  from  Lope  the 
Pirate,  who  forced  back  the  invading  Galicians  in  840,  to  the 
Infante  Don  Juan,  under  whom  the  Basque  provinces  were 
finally  incorporated  with  Castile. 

Close  by  the  Casa  de  Juntas,  which  stands  in  a  dreamy 
bit  of  park  as  fresh  and  trim  as  an  English  cathedral  close, 
rises  •  a  pillared  portico.  There,  where  brown-eyed  little 
Basque  girls,  their  brown  braids  blowing  in  the  breeze,  were 
dangling  green  figs  above  their  laughing  mouths,  used  to  sit, 
on  those  seven  stone  seats,  the  grave  Basque  fathers,  making 
laws,  meting  out  judgment,  and  regulating  all  the  affairs  of 
this  simple  mountain  republic.  The  portico,  bearing  as 
joint  devices  the  lion  and  castle  of  Spain  and  the  three  wolves 
of  Vizcaya,  was  formerly  enveloped  in  the  leafy  shadow  of 
the  Sacred  Tree ;  but  what  rises  behind  it  now  is  only  the 
gaunt  stem  of  a  patriarchal  oak,  a  very  Abraham  of  plants, 


Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

all  enclosed  in  glass,  as  if  embalmed  in  its  casket.  Before 
the  portico,  however,  grows  a  lusty  scion,  for  the  Tree  of 
Guernica  is  of  unbroken  lineage,  shoots  being  always  cherished 
to  succeed  in  case  the  centuried  predecessor  fail. 

In  presence  of  this  despoiled  old  trunk,  majestic  with 
memories,  we  felt  an  honest  awe  and  longed  to  give  it 
adequate  salute.  My  comrade  levelled  her  kodak  and  took 
front  views,  back  views,  and  side  views  with  such  spend- 
thrift enthusiasm  that  the  custodian,  deeply  impressed,  pre- 
sented her  with  a  dried  leaf  from  the  junior,  cunningly 
pricked  out  so  as  to  suggest  the  figure  of  the  tree.  The 
national  song  of  the  Basques,  a  matter  of  some  dozen  stan- 
zas, written  principally  in  "j's,"  "  rr's,"  and  "  tz's,"  takes 
its  theme,  if  one  may  trust  the  Castilian  translation,  from 
this  symbolic  oak. 

The  historian  wished  to  do  nothing  more  in  Guernica  but 
sit  and  gaze  forever  on  that  spectral  trunk,  but  the  reminder 
that  piety  was  a  hardly  less  marked  Basque  characteristic 
than  political  independence,  finally  induced  her  to  follow  our 
guide  to  the  church.  A  Basque  church  has  its  distinctive 
features,  including  a  belfry,  a  lofty,  plain  interior,  with  gal- 
leries, and  often  a  votive  ship,  gayly  painted  and  fully  rigged, 
suspended  from  the  ceiling.  The  lad  bore  himself  with 
simple-minded  devotion,  offering  us  on  stubby  finger  tips  the 
holy  water  and  making  due  obeisance  before  each  gilded 
shrine. 

But  my  attention  was  soon  fascinated  by  a  foot-square 
relief  on  a  blue  ground  of  Santiago  — 

"  Good  Saint  James  upon  the  miikwhite  steed, 
Who  leaves  his  bliss  to  fight  for  chosen  Spain." 


Across  the   Basque  Provinces  371 

I  had  hardly  anticipated  such  a  stalwart,  vigorous,  not  to  say 
violent  saint,  with  his  white  horse  galloping,  his  gold-sandalled 
feet  gripping  the  great  stirrups,  his  gold-fringed,  crimson  robe 
and  azure  mantle  streaming  on  the  wind,  his  terrible  sword 
glittering  high  in  air.  This  was  clearly  not  a  person  to  be 
trifled  with,  and  I  looked  about  for  the  historian  to  tell  her 
that  we  must  be  pressing  forward  on  our  pilgrimage.  But 
she  had  stolen  out,  every  sympathetic  Basque  image  of  the 
sculptured  doorway  conspiring  to  keep  a  stony  silence  and 
conceal  her  flight,  and  had  sped  back  to  the  Tree  of  Guer- 
nica, from  whose  contemplation  she  was  torn  away  only  by 
a  fairy-tale  of  supper. 

Of  the  several  Basque  churches  which  we  visited,  in- 
cluding the  bridal  church  of  Louis  XIV,  far-famed  San 
Juan  de  Luz,  whose  sides  and  west  end  are  portioned  ofF  by 
three  tiers  of  galleries,  fairest  in  memory  is  the  sixteenth- 
century  church  of  Begona  in  Bilbao.  It  abounds,  as  coast 
churches  should,  in  suggestions  of  that  mighty,  mysterious 
neighbor,  at  once  so  cruel  and  so  beneficent,  the  sea.  In- 
stead of  votive  ships,  the  walls  are  hung  with  paintings 
of  vessels  in  scenes  of  appalling  peril.  One  is  scudding 
madly  before  a  tropical  gale ;  one  has  her  rigging  ragged  by 
hurricane  and  her  decks  lashed  with  tempest ;  one,  careened 
upon  her  side,  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  billows,  which  are 
sweeping  over  her  and  tumbling  her  crew  like  ninepins  into  the 
deep.  But  the  presence  of  the  pictures,  bold  dashes  of  the 
modern  brush  amid  dim  old  paintings  of  saints  and  martyrs, 
tells  that  Our  Lady  of  Begona  succored  her  sailors  in  distress, 
who,  on  their  safe  return,  came  hither  to  offer  thanks  for  their 
preservation  and  to  leave  these  mementos  of  their  danger  and 
her  efficient  aid. 


372  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

u  Is  your  Virgin  so  very  powerful  ?  "  we  asked  of  a  chor- 
ister boy  while  he  drew  the  cords  to  part  the  curtains  that 
screened  the  jewelled  image  throned  in  a  recess  above  the 
high  altar. 

"  I  should  rather  think  she  was,"  answered  the  little  fellow 
in  a  glow.  "  Why,  let  me  tell  you  !  Robbers,  the  ac- 
cursed ones,  came  here  on  a  dark  midnight  to  steal  her 
precious  stones.  They  entered  by  a  window,  those  sons  of 
wretched  mothers,  and  put  up  a  long  ladder  against  the  altar 
wall.  The  wickedest  of  them  all,  senoras,  he  climbed  the 
ladder  and  raised  his  hand  to  take  Our  Lady's  crown.  And 
in  that  instant  the  great  bells  overhead  began  to  ring,  and  all 
the  bells  of  all  Bilbao  pealed  with  them,  and  the  people 
waked  and  came  running  to  the  rescue  of  Our  Lady,  and  the 
robbers  were  put  to  death." 

Our  expression  did  not  quite  satisfy  his  boyish  ardor,  and 
he  pointed  convincingly  toward  a  handsome  silver  plaque. 
"  And  this,  too,  witnesses  Our  Lady's  power.  It  was  given 
in  memory  of  the  cholera  time,  when  people  were  dying  like 
flies  in  all  the  towns  about.  But  after  Our  Lady  was  carried 
in  procession  through  the  streets  of  Bilbao,  not  one  died  here, 
except  a  sinful  man  who  would  not  turn  his  head  to  look 
upon  her." 

"That  is  a  painting  of  the  procession,  the  large  picture 
over  there  on  the  wall  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  senoras.  That  picture  commemorates  another 
of  Our  Lady's  wonderful  deeds.  The  floods  were  threaten- 
ing the  city,  but  Our  Lady,  with  many  censers  and  candles, 
was  borne  down  to  the  river  bank,  and  she  ordered  the  water 
to  go  back,  and  it  obeyed  her,  and  all  the  town  was  saved." 


Across  the   Basque  Provinces  373 

We  retreated  to  the  cloisters,  from  which  one  has  a  superb 
view  of  the  valley, of  the  Nervion,  for  Our  Lady  of  Begona 
dwells  high  upon  a  hilltop.  Only  the  afternoon  before  we 
had  been  in  serene  Guernica,  a  strange  contrast  to  this  mining 
capital  of  Vizcaya,  this  bustling,  noisy,  iron-grimed  Bilbao, 
in  which  the  Basques  take  such  delight.  It  is  not  a  city 
to  gratify  the  mere  tourist,  who  expects  the  people  of  the 
lands  through  which  he  is  pleased  to  pass  to  devote  themselves 
to  looking  picturesque.  But  even  Spain  is  something  more 
than  food  for  the  kodak,  and  this  sooty  atmosphere  of  smelt- 
ing works  and  factories,  traffic  and  commerce,  means  life  to 
Spanish  lungs.  It  is  little  to  my  credit  that  I  took  more 
interest  in  the  fact  that  Bilbao  used  to  supply  Shakespeare's 
cronies  with  rapiers,  under  the  name  of  "  bilboes,"  than  in 
statistics  regarding  those  millions  of  tons  of  ore  which  its 
iron  mines  are  now  annually  exporting  to  Great  Britain. 
The  many  English  in  Bilbao,  miners  and  artisans,  with  the 
influence  they  shed  around  them,  make  the  streets  rougher 
and  uglier  than  in  purely  Spanish  towns.  On  the  other 
hand,  they  bring  a  spirit  of  religious  independence,  so  that 
it  is  not  strange  to  find  the  Spanish  Protestants  of  Bilbao  a 
numerous  and  vigorous  body,  counting  as  a  pronounced 
element  in  the  community. 

From  the  idle  peace  of  the  Begofia  cloisters,  as  from  the 
old-time  world,  we  looked  long  on  this  Spanish  city  of  to-day, 
seething  with  manifold  activities.  We  seemed  to  understand 
how,  to  the  middle-class  Spaniard,  hemmed  in  by  all  this 
mediaeval  encumbrance  of  barracks,  cathedrals,  castles,  and 
thrones,  such  cities  as  Bilbao  and  Barcelona,  pulsing  with 
industrial  energy  and  enterprise,  are  "  more  beautiful  than 


374  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

Beauty's  self."  The  Basques,  like  the  Catalans,  take  readily 
to  business.  They  set  their  mountain  cascades  to  turning 
mill-wheels,  they  canal  their  little  Nervion  till  it  can  give 
passage  to  ships  of  four  thousand  tons  burden,  they  paint  the 
night  with  the  flare  of  mighty  furnaces.  Every  year  they  are 
building  more  wharves,  more  railroads,  more  electric  tram- 
ways, and  they  are  so  prodigiously  proud  of  their  new  iron 
bridge,  with  its  flying  ferry,  which  whisks  passengers  over 
from  Portugalete  to  Las  Arenas  at  the  rate  of  two  hundred  a 
minute,  that  they  stamp  it  on  their  characteristic  jewelry. 
That  cunning  Eibar  work  of  the  Basque  provinces  displays 
again  and  again,  on  locket,  bracelet,  brooch,  this  incongruous 
design  of  the  Puente  Vizcaya  beaten  on  chased  steel  in 
gold. 

We  looked  regretfully  out  over  those  significant  reaches 
of  land  which  we  would  have  liked  to  explore  to  the  last 
hearthstone.  The  Basque  provinces !  We  had  not  even 
set  foot  in  Vitoria,  the  capital  of  Alava,  where  is  preserved 
the  grim  old  machete  by  which  Basque  governors  were 
sworn  into  office.  "  May  my  head  be  cut  off  with  this 
knife,"  ran  the  oath,  "  if  I  do  not  defend  the  fu'eros  of  my 
fatherland." 

And  we  longed  to  attend  one  of  the  peasant  festivals,  to 
see  the  lads  play  pelota  and  the  lasses  step  Basque  dances  to 
the  music  of  the  village  pipers,  to  hear  the  wild  old  marches  and 
battle  tunes  that  have  roused  the  Roman  and  the  Moor  to 
arms.  The  mystery  plays  of  the  Basques  were  famous  once, 
and  although  these  naive  dramas  are  now  mainly  confined  to 
Christmas  and  Easter,  who  could  say  that  we  might  not 
chance  on  some  saint-day  fragment  ?  There  was  soon  to 


Across  the   Basque  Provinces  375 

take  place,  too,  in  one  of  the  Vizcayan  hamlets  a  "blessing 
of  the  fields,"  a  processional  harvest  rite  of  pagan  antiquity, 
formerly  universal  in  Spain,  but  now  confined  to  a  few  rural 
districts.  We  had  a  hundred  reasons  for  lingering  —  but 
what  are  reasons  ?  Pilgrims  of  St.  James  must  put  fresh  peas 
in  their  shoes  and  be  off  for  Compostela. 


XXIII 

IN    OLD    CASTILE 

"  With  three  thousand  men  of  Leon  from  the  city  Bernard  goes, 
To  protect  the  soil  Hispanian  from  the  spear  of  Prankish  foes; 
From  the  city  which  is  planted  in  the  midst  between  the  seas, 
To  preserve  the  name  and  glory  of  old  Pelayo's  victories. 

"  The  peasant  hears  upon  his  field  the  trumpet  of  the  knight, — 
He  quits  his  team  for  spear  and  shield  and  garniture  of  might ; 
The  shepherd  hears  it  'mid  the  mist,  — he  flingeth  down  his  crook, 
And  rushes  from  the  mountain  like  a  tern  pest- troubled  trook." 

—  LOCKHART  :   Spanish  Ballads. 

THE  journey  from  Bilbao  to  Santander  is  a  continuous 
glory  of  mountain  views.     The  train   runs  saucily 
along  under  beetling  crags,  whence  the  gods  of  the 
hills  may  well  look  down  in  wonder  and  displeasure  on  this 
noisy  invasion  of  their  solitude.    We  almost  saw  those  ancient 
majesties    folding   themselves   grandly    in    mantles   of   purple 
shadow,  but  hardly  less  royal    in    bearing  were   the   muffled 
figures   of   the  lonely   shepherds  tending  their  flocks  on  the 
very  summits. 

The  modern  Province  of  Santander  is  the  renowned  Mon- 
tana, the  mountain  lair  which  nourished  the  chivalry  of  Old 
Castile,  and  from  which  they  made  wild  sallies  to  the  south, 
troop  after  troop,  generation  after  generation,  until  the  Moorish 
Standards  were  beaten  back  from  the  plains  about  Toledo  to 

376 


In   Old  Castile  377 

the  Sierras  of  Andalusia.  Its  capital  city,  Santander,  named 
from  St.  Andrew,  was  one  of  the  four  coast  towns  which 
rendered  signal  service  to  Fernando  in  the  conquest  of  Seville. 
These  towns,  lying  as  they  did  over  against  the  Cinque  Ports 
of  England,  came  into  so  frequent  conflict  with  British 
mariners  as  to  be  made  in  the  days  of  Edward  III  the  subject 
of  a  special  treaty. 

A  summer  resort,  however,  is  a  summer  resort  the  world 
over,  and  we  found  the  historic  city,  which  has  gracefully 
fitted  itself  to  the  curve  of  its  beautiful  bay,  crowded  with 
idle  people,  elaborately  dressed,  who  sat  long  at  the  noonday 
breakfast,  and  longer  yet  at  the  evening  dinner,  and  then 
longest  of  all  on  the  benches  in  ,the  park,  where  bands 
clashed  and  fireworks  flared,  until  the  very  stars  began  to 
blink  for  sleepiness. 

Spaniards  have  a  veritable  passion  for  pyrotechnics,  and  our 
dreams  until  the  dawn  would  be  punctuated  by  the  airy  report 
of  rockets,  as  if,  so  Galdos  suggests,  "  the  angels  were  crack- 
ing nuts  in  the  sky."  Every  now  and  then  in  those  soft  warm 
nights  there  rose  a  shout  of  song  from  the  street,  and 
peeping  down  from  the  balcony,  we  would  see  half  a  dozen 
lads  and  lasses  leaping  along  through  the  middle  of  the  road, 
all  abreast  and  hand  in  hand,  in  one  of  their  boisterous  peasant 
dances. 

There  are  no  fewer  dangers  and  sorrows  for  girls  in  Spain 
than  in  the  other  Latin  lands.  In  the  low-vaulted,  mighty- 
pillared,  deep-shadowed  crypt  under  the  old  cathedral,  a  crypt 
that  is  the  very  haunt  of  religious  mystery  and  dread,  we  came 
upon  a  penitent  kneeling  before  the  altar,  a  bit  of  written 
paper  pinned  to  her  back.  In  a  stir  of  the  chill  air  this 


378  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

fluttered  to  the  ground,  and  as  she,  unconscious  of  its  loss, 
bowed  herself  before  another  shrine,  we  picked  up  the  paper 
with  a  half  thought  of  restoring  it ;  but  seeing  in  the  first 
glance  that  it  was  a  rudely  written  prayer,  entreating  the 
Virgin's  pity  and  pardon  for  her  lover  and  herself,  we  let  it 
fall  again  at  Mary's  feet.  All  manner  of  thank-offerings, 
waxen  limbs,  eyes,  and  ears,  were  hung  in  these  candle-lit 
recesses,  little  spaces  of  gold  amid  the  gloom.  We  had  grown 
accustomed  to  such  fragments  of  anatomy  in  the  shop-windows, 
where  even  votive  stomachs  are  displayed  for  sale. 

Although  Santander  is  a  dawdler's  paradise,  the  residents 
of  the  city  to  whom  we  had  letters  were  no  holiday  makers, 
but  Spaniards  of  the  earnest,  thoughtful,  liberal  type,  busy 
with  large  tasks  of  their  own,  but  never  too  busy,  being 
Spaniards,  to  show  unstinted  kindness  to  the  strangers  within 
their  gates.  Our  brief  stay  did  not  admit  of  a  tithe  of  the 
excursions  they  had  in  mind  for  us,  but  my  comrade  achieved 
a  trip  to  Santillana  del  Mar,  birthplace  of  the  doughty  Gil 
Bias. 

In  the  latest  version  of  her  adventures,  she  set  forth  from 
Santander  under  the  bluest  of  skies,  in  company  with  the 
most  bewitching  of  senoritas.  They  left  the  train  at  Torre- 
lavega,  where  the  shade  of  Garci  Laso,  one  of  King  Pedro's 
victims,  would  doubtless  have  welcomed  them,  had  not  their 
attention  been  taken  up  with  a  picturesque  coachman,  who 
was  standing  dreamily  on  the  station  platform.  This  Adonis 
proved  a  complete  paragon,  who,  as  they  took  their  romantic 
course  over  the  hills,  delightedly  pointed  out  ivied  tower, 
broken  portcullis,  and  the  like,  as  tidbits  for  the  kodak. 

Santillana  is  the  shrine  of  Santa  Juliana,  a  Roman  martyr, 


In  Old  Castile  379 

whose  body  is  said  to  have  been  carried  thither  in  the  ninth 
century.  Her  devotees  among  the  mountain  wilds  built  her 
in  this  green  valley,  overhung  by  a  rude  old  fortress,  a  pre- 
cious church,  a  jewel  of  the  early  Romanesque,  about  whose 
walls  a  thriving  community  soon  gathered.  Santillana  was 
throughout  the  Middle  Ages  the  most  important  place  be- 
tween Burgos  and  Oviedo,  and  gave  name  to  all  that  part  of 
the  Montana.  The  successive  Marquises  of  Santillana  were 
then  great  personages  in  Spain,  playing  a  leading  part  at 
Court.  One  of  the  proudest  families  of  Old  Castile,  they 
claimed  descent  from  the  Cid,  and  cherished  the  memory  of 
another  heroic  ancestor,  who,  in  1385,  sacrificed  his  life  to 
save  his  king. 

"'Your   horse  is  faint,   my  King,   my  Lord!    your  gallant  horse  is 

sick,  — 

His  limbs  are  torn,  his  breast  is  gored,  on  his  eye  the  film  is  thick  ; 
Mount,  mount  on  mine,  O  mount  apace,  I  pray  thee  mount  and  fly  ! 
Or  in  my  arms  I'll  lift  your  Grace,  —  their  trampling  hoofs  are  nigh  ! 

"'Nay,  never  speak;  my  sires,  Lord  King,  received  their  land  from 

yours, 

And  joyfully  their  blood  shall  spring,  so  be  it  thine  secures ; 
If  I  should  fly,  and  thou,  my  King,  be  found  among  the  dead, 
How  could  I  stand  'mong  gentlemen,  such  scorn  on  my  gray  head?' 


"So  spake  the  brave  Montanez,  Butrago's  lord  was  he  ; 
And  turned  him  to  the  coming  host  in  steadfastness  and  glee  ; 
He  flung  himself  among  them,  as  they  came  down  the  hill,  — 
He  died,  God  wot  !  but  not  before  his  sword  had  drunk  its  fill." 


380  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

The  city  of  Santillana,  whose  lords  once  laid  claim  to  the 
sovereignty  of  Santander,  has  shrunk  to  a  forgotten  village,  and 
the  neglected  church  is  dropping  into  ruins  ;  but  the  inhabitants 
have  abated  not  a  jot  of  that  fierce  local  patriotism  which 
blinds  the  provincial  Spaniard  to  all  defects  of  his  birthplace 
and  to  all  excellences  of  rival  towns.  A  graybeard  told  the 
stranger  ladies  that  Santillana  was  the  oldest  city  in  Spain  and 
its  cathedral  the  most  beautiful.  This  latter  statement  they 
were  almost  ready  to  accept,  so  richly  carven  was  the  yellow 
stone  and  so  harmonious  the  proportions  of  nave  and  aisle. 
When  they  arrived  at  this  miniature  Durham  they  found  it 
closed  and  silent,  with  three  little  boys  sleeping  on  the  steps. 
Through  the  benevolence  of  the  ever  present  Spanish  loafers, 
the  sacristan  was  sought  out  and  a  ragged  escort  formed  for 
their  progress  from  chapel  to  chapel,  where  rare  old  pictures 
and  frescos  glowed  across  the  dusk.  Best  of  all  were  the  ven- 
erable cloisters,  weed-grown  and  tumble-down,  but  lovely  as 
a  mediaeval  dream  with  mellow-tinted  arch  and  column,  and 
with  capitals  of  marvellous  device.  This  crumbling  church 
still  keeps  a  dazzling  hoard  of  treasures.  All  the  front  of 
the  high  altar  is  wrought  of  solid  silver,  the  reredos  is  a 
miracle  of  art,  and  the  paintings  of  old  masters  that  moulder 
here  unseen  would  long  since  in  any  other  land  than 
Catholic  Spain  have  been  the  spoils  of  gallery  and  museum. 

The  cathedral  stands  just  outside  the  town,  whose  narrow, 
crooked  streets  daunted  the  carriage  ;  but  these  enthusiastic 
sightseers  were  all  the  better  pleased  to  foot  the  flagging  that 
many  a  clinking  tread  had  worn  and  to  touch  on  either  side, 
with  their  extended  hands,  the  fortresslike  houses  built  of 
heavy  stone  and  dimly  emblazoned  with  fierce  armorial  bear- 


In  Old  Castile  381 

ings.  These  grim  dwellings  were  gladdened  by  the  grace 
of  vine-clad  balconies,  where  children  frolicked  and  women 
crooned  quaint  melodies  over  their  needlework. 

"Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago." 

The  inn  was  merely  the  customary  Spanish  venta^  rough 
and  poor,  the  darkness  of  whose  long,  low  room  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke  from  clumps  of  gambling  muleteers  were 
making  blacker  yet ;  but  lemonade  was  served  to  the  ladies 
in  the  open  porch  with  a  charm  of  cordial  courtesy  far 
beyond  Delmonico's. 

As  they  quaffed  this  modest  refreshment  and  watched  the 
shifting  groups  about  the  venta,  which  seemed  the  centre  of 
the  social  life,  there  suddenly  appeared  upon  the  scene  a  ghost 
from  the  modern  world,  an  everyday  gentleman  in  a  straw 
hat,  as  citified  and  up  to  date  as  if  he  had  that  moment 
stepped  out  of  a  Madrid  cafe.  All  the  loungers  within  and 
without  the  venta  sprang  to  their  feet,  bared  their  heads, 
and  bowed  low  to  this  anachronism  with  so  profound  a  defer- 
ence that  the  tourists  began  to  wonder  if  the  irrepressible 
Gil  Bias  had  come  alive  again.  Not  he !  This  was  the 
Marquis  of  Santillana,  bearing  under  his  arm  instead  of  a 
sword  a  bundle  of  newspapers.  The  first  Marquis  of  San- 
tillana had  been  a  famous  warrior  and  troubadour.  This 
latest  "  inheritor  of  old  renown,"  seating  himself  in  the  midst 
of  his  thronging  vassals,  graciously  proceeded,  much  like  a 
University  Extension  lecturer,  to  read  aloud,  with  simple 


382  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

explanations,  the  news  of  the  day.  Such  is  the  final  form 
of  noblesse  oblige  in  the  feudal  valley  of  Santillana. 

We  were  tempted  to  hunt  out  other  nooks  and  eyries  in 
the  mountains  of  Santander,  to  see  something  of  the  famous 
sardine  fisheries,  to  drive  along  the  many-storied  coast  all  the 
way  to  Gijon,  paying  our  respects  in  passing  to  a  noble  oak 
of  Asturias,  one  of  the  three  largest  trees  of  Europe;  but 
always  the  uplifted  sword  of  St.  James  drove  us  on.  If  we 
would  reach  Compostela  in  season  for  the  annual  fiesta  de 
Santiago,  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  So,  in  default  of  a  nearer 
railway  connection,  we  started  due  south  for  Palencia.  Our 
route  ran  at  first  through  a  land  of  hills,  maize,  and  stone 
walls  that  might  have  been  New  England,  except  for  the 
women  scratching  away  in  the  hay-fields,  and  politely  saluting 
the  train  with  a  flourish  of  their  pitchforks. 

Then  more  and  more  the  landscape  became  Spanish.  Little 
stone  hamlets  dozed  in  ever  shallower  valleys,  mule  trains  and 
solitary  horsemen  moved  slowly  down  poplar-bordered  high- 
ways, white  as  chalk ;  there  was  a  slumbering  peasant  for 
every  speck  of  shade.  But  while  the  men  took  their  siestas, 
often  sleeping  where  the  drowsiness  had  befallen  them,  with 
arm  thrown  about  the  wooden  plough  or  with  head  pillowed  on 
the  thrashing  roller,  there  were  always  women  at  work  — 
figures  clad  in  the  very  colors  of  the  harvest,  red  and  gold  and 
purple,  binding  sheaves,  sweeping  the  fields  with  stout  brush 
brooms,  tending  flocks  and  herds  by  the  rivers,  following  stray 
sheep  over  the  hills,  with  only  a  handkerchief  at  the  most  to 
protect  their  heads  from  the  terrible  noonday  sun.  As  the 
afternoon  wore  on,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  melancholy 
reaches  of  brown  Castilian  plain,  with  the  adobe  towns,  the 


In  Old  Castile  383 

miserable  mud  villages,  open-air  threshing  floors,  and  arid, 
silent,  Oriental  look. 

The  only  cloud  in  sight  was  that  which  rested  for  a 
moment  on  my  comrade's  face.  She  had  so  newly  come 
from  our  clean  and  wholesome  fatherland  that  certain  fea- 
tures of  the  Spanish  inns  still  shook  her  high  serenity  of  soul, 
and  she  had  suddenly  discovered  that  Baedeker  significantly 
characterized  the  Palencia  hotel  as  "  an  indifferent  Spanish 
house."  In  the  discreet  language  of  our  excellent  guidebook 
this  was  no  less  than  a  note  of  warning,  a  signal  of  alarm. 
But  even  Baedeker  is  fallible,  and  on  arriving  at  the  Gran 
Hotel  Continental^  we  were  met  by  all  the  Castilian  dignity 
and  grave  kindliness  of  greeting,  and  led  to  rooms  whose 
floors  shone  with  oil  and  scrubbing,  whose  curtains,  towels, 
and  sheeting  were  white  as  mountain  snow,  and  whose  fur- 
nishings were  resplendent  with  two  dozen  chairs  upholstered 
in  orange  satin.  We  seated  ourselves  in  rapture  on  one 
saffron  throne  after  another,  drank  fresh  milk  from  polished 
glasses,  and  slept,  for  this  only  night  of  all  our  Santiago  pil- 
grimage, the  sleep  of  the  unbitten.  A  sweet-voiced  sereno 
intoning  the  hours  set  our  dreams  to  music. 

The  following  morning  we  spent  in  the  cathedral,  which, 
though  of  plain  exterior,  except  for  the  many-imaged  "  Door 
of  the  Bishop,"  is  all  lightness,  grace,  and  symmetry  within. 
The  organ  was  pealing  and  women  were  kneeling  for  the 
mass  as  we  went  softly  down  the  high-vaulted  nave,  our  spirits 
played  upon  now  by  the  dignity  of  pointed  arches  and  of 
clustered  columns  and  now  by  delicate  beauties  in  tracery  and 
carving.  Only  here  and  there  were  we  aware  of  a  jarring 
note,  as  in  chancing  upon  a  great  crucifix  whose  Christ  was 


384  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

decked  out  in  two  elegant  lace  petticoats  and  a  white  silk 
crinoline  embroidered  over  with  silver  thread. 

When  the  chant  had  died  away,  an  affectionate  old  sacristan, 
in  a  curious  red  and  black  coat,  delivered  us  with  sundry  fare- 
well pats  and  pinches  over  to  the  charge  of  a  subordinate,  who 
proceeded  to  display  the  hidden  treasures.  These  are  far  from 
overwhelming,  after  the  glittering  hoards  of  Burgos,  Seville, 
and  Toledo,  but  they  are  as  odd  an  assortment  as  sacristy  ever 
sheltered.  There  was  an  absurd  portrait  of  Charles  I,  a  freak 
of  foreshortening.  At  first  sight  it  seemed  to  be  the  skeleton 
of  a  fish,  but  on  viewing  it  through  a  peephole  the  creature 
had  become  a  human  face.  Even  so,  it  was  hardly  a  flattering 
likeness  of  the  founder  of  the  Austrian  line;  but  as  it  was 
Charles  I  who  stripped  Palencia  of  her  original  powers  and 
dignities,  one  would  not  expect  to  find  him  complimented 
here. 

We  turned  our  attention  to  the  vestments,  which,  though 
few,  are  peculiarly  artistic,  with  devices,  stitched  in  gold  thread 
and  in  jewel  reds  and  greens,  of  pomegranates,  roses,  ecclesi- 
astical coats  of  arms,  angels,  Maries,  Nativities,  and  Adora- 
tions. These  were  appropriate  enough,  but  even  our  reserved 
conductor,  a  monastic  youth  who  wore  a  white,  openwork 
tunic  over  his  black  suit,  smiled  disdainfully  as  he  put  before 
us  a  time-yellowed  ivory  box  arabesqued  with  men  and  lions,  the 
jewel  casket  of  some  pet  sultana.  "  But  why  should  it  be 
here  ?  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  In  truth,  it  is  not 
holy  —  a  woman's  thing!  Nor  do  I  know  how  it  came  to 
us,  but  what  we  have  we  keep." 

The  sacristy  certainly  seems  to  have  kept  more  than  its 
share  of  custodias.  Our  guide  first  brought  out  a  dainty 


In  Old  Castile  385 

structure,  where  grieving  angels  uplift  the  cross,  and  the 
Sufferer's  halo  is  wrought  of  pearls  and  gems.  This  was 
replaced  by  another,  a  marvel  of  goldsmith's  craft,  turreted 
and  crocketed  with  fine  gold,  while  all  about  the  base  are 
figured  Annunciations,  Visitations,  and  other  mysteries.  Rich 
as  they  were,  neither  of  these  could  compare  with  that  famous 
pyx  of  the  Escorial,  inlaid  with  ten  thousand  precious  stones. 
Then  our  conductor  took  us  with  a  mighty  turning  of  monster 
keys,  pulling  of  rusty  bolts,  and  fall  of  clanging  chains,  to  see 
the  supreme  custodia  of  all,  one  great  dazzle  of  silver  from 
fretted  base  to  dome  and  pinnacle,  save  as  among  the  Corin- 
thian columns  of  the  first  stage  glisten  golden  forms  of  the 
Apostles,  and  of  the  second,  winged  shapes  of  cherubim  and 
seraphim.  This  shining  tower,  some  three  or  four  centuries 
old,  is  beheld  by  Palencia  only  on  Corpus  Christi  Day,  when, 
holding  at  its  heart  the  golden  monstrance  which  holds  the 
Host,  it  passes  as  a  triumphal  car  throughout  the  city.  Priests 
walking  on  either  side  make  a  feint  of  drawing  it  by  tasselled 
cords,  but  "  little  would  it  budge  for  that,"  said  our  guide,  in 
high  disdain,  opening  a  door  in  the  frame  beneath  to  reveal 
the  benches  where  strong  men  sit  concealed  and  toil  at  a 
motor  crank.  He  had  much  more  to  show  us,  including 
precious  old  tapestries  of  the  Netherlands,  and  a  St.  Katharine 
by  Zurbaran,  with  a  light  on  the  kneeling  figure  as  pure  and 
bright  as  a  moonbeam;  but  we  had  to  press  the  fee  on  his 
Castilian  pride,  when  at  last  the  vulgarity  of  luncheon  sum- 
moned us  away. 

For  the  historian,  basking  in  this  last   smile  of  civilization, 
the  afternoon  passed  blissfully  among  the  orange  chairs,  but   I 
sallied  forth  once  more,  attended  by  our  benignant  landlady. 
2  c 


j 86  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

The  rays  of  the  sun  flashed  down  like  deadly  arrows  and  I 
had  pleaded  for  a  carriage,  but  longed  to  beg  its  pardon  when 
it  came,  so  faded,  rheumatic,  and  yet  august  was  that  fat  old 
chariot,  groaning  and  tottering  as  it  rolled,  but  lowering  the 
pomp  of  a  velvet-carpeted  staircase  whenever  we  desired  to 
alight. 

Our  progress  made  a  grand  sensation  in  those  drowsy  streets 
and  squares,  a  retinue  soon  gathered,  and  nobody  seemed  sur- 
prised when,  after  a  round  of  Jesuit  and  Dominican  churches, 
we  drew  up  before  the  madhouse.  I  had  wished  to  look  upon 
this  building,  because  it  is  reputed  to  have  been  a  dwelling  of 
the  Cid  ;  but  the  hero  of  Castile  was  as  unknown  to  my  gentle 
escort  as  to  the  medical  priest  whom  she  must  needs  call 
forth  to  meet  me,  or  to  the  hapless  lunatics  whom  he,  in  turn, 
insisted  on  my  seeing.  A  town  which  had  forgotten  its  chief 
citizen  naturally  fails  to  keep  on  sale  photographs  of  its  cathe- 
dral, so  we  packed  our  memories  in  default  of  anything  more 
substantial  and  took  the  evening  train  to  the  northwest. 

Four  hours  of  hushed,  moonlit  plain,  and  then  Leon  \ 
This  is  a  name  of  thrilling  memories,  and  we  stepped  out 
into  the  midnight  silence  of  that  once  royal  capital  whose 
kingdom  "  stretched  from  the  Atlantic  Ocean  to  the  Rhone," 
so  awed  that  even  a  rickety  'bus,  and  a  smuggler  who  tried  to 
hide  his  trunk  behind  our  honest  luggage,  hardly  broke  the 
spell.  My  comrade,  still  new  to  Spanish  ways,  had  fears 
that  the  illustrated  card  which  I  had  forgotten  to  stamp  would 
not  have  reached  the  hotel.  She  asked  me  why  I  did  not 
telegraph ;  but  some  days  later,  when  we  sent  a  telegram 
at  noon,  took  a  way-train  at  five,  and  reached  our  destination 
at  ten,  simultaneously  with  the  telegram  which  I  might  as 


In  Old  Castile  387 

well  have  brought  in  my  pocket,  she  was  set  free  from  New 
World  prejudices.  The  unstamped  card  went  through  with- 
out question,  a  picture  of  a  pretty  mountain  maid  being  quite 
as  acceptable  to  the  postal  clerks  as  the  portrait  of  their  young 
king. 

We  were  expected  at  the  hotel,  the  best  in  town,  but  so 
dirty  and  malodorous  that  we  would  better  have  camped 
under  the  stars.  There  had  been  some  attempt  to  sweep  the 
floor  of  our  dingy  chamber,  as  we  could  see  by  comparing  it 
with  stairs  and  corridors.  Sour  milk  and  sour  bread  were 
served  with  a  compensating  sweetness  of  manner,  but  the 
experiences  of  that  night  belong  to  oblivion. 

The  joy  of  the  morning  !  Guided  by  a  shy  little  scullery 
lad,  smooched  of  face  and  ragged  of  raiment,  but  with  all 
the  instincts  of  a  cavalier,  we  stepped  out  into  those  stately 
streets,  with  their  haughty  old  houses,  balconies,  coats  of 
arms,  arches,  and  battlements,  as  into  an  animated  picture 
book.  It  was  Saturday,  and  the  town  was  all  astir  with 
peasants  come  to  market,  every  peasant  as  good  as  a  romance. 
Such  brightness  of  figured  kerchiefs,  homespun  petticoats, 
trunk  hose,  jackets,  sashes  !  The  little  girls  were  quaintest 
of  all,  dressed  precisely  like  their  mammas,  even  to  those 
brilliant  skirts  edged  with  one  color  and  slashed  with  another. 
Many  of  the  women  were  carrying  loads  of  greens,  others 
plucked  fowls,  and  some  had  indignant  chickens,  in  full  pos- 
session of  chicken  faculties,  snuggled  under  the  arm. 

As  the  chief  city  in  a  far  reach  of  luxuriant  plain,  Leon 
becomes  the  focus,  every  Saturday,  of  flocks  of  sheep,  droves 
of  pigs,  and  herds  of  cattle,  together  with  innumerable  mules 
and  donkeys  bringing  in  grain,  fruit,  and  all  manner  of  garden 


388  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

produce.  We  chanced  upon  the  market  itself  in  the  arcaded 
Plaza  Mayor,  under  shadow  of  the  towered  court-house, 
with  the  tapering  spire  of  the  cathedral  overlooking  all.  The 
great  square  hummed  like  a  beehive  and  sparkled  with  shift- 
ing color  like  a  field  of  butterflies.  We  found  ourselves  first 
in  the  bread  market.  Under  wide  umbrellas  of  canvas  set  on 
poles  women  were  perched  high  on  wooden  benches,  with 
their  gayly  shod  feet  supported  on  stools.  Beside  each 
woman,  on  her  rude  seat,  was  a  brightly  woven  basket  heaped 
with  the  horny  Spanish  loaves.  Close  by  was  the  fruit 
market,  with  its  piles  of  red  and  purple  plums,  pears,  grapes, 
green  peppers,  lemons,  and,  beyond,  patches  of  melons, 
cucumbers,  cabbages,  potatoes,  beans,  and  that  staff  of  Span- 
ish life,  chick  pease,  or  garbanzos. 

The  meat  market  appeared  to  be  itinerant.  A  man  in 
blue  blouse,  short  brown  breeches,  and  dove-colored  hose 
adorned  with  green  tassels,  was  leading  a  cow  by  its  crumpled 
horn  ;  an  old  woman,  with  giant  silver  hoops  in  her  ears,  a 
lavender  shawl  knotted  about  her  body,  her  scarlet  skirt  well 
slashed  so  as  to  show  the  gamboge  petticoat  beneath,  and  so 
short  for  all  its  purple  frill  as  to  display  the  clockwork  of  her 
variegated  stockings,  was  carrying  a  black  lamb,  nestled  like  a 
baby  in  her  arms ;  another  walking  rainbow  bore  a  live  turkey  ; 
and  a  lad,  whose  rosy-hued  kerchief,  shawl,  and  sash  floated 
like  sunrise  clouds  about  him,  balanced  on  his  erect  young 
head  an  immense  basket  of  eggs.  There  was  a  pottery  sec- 
tion, too,  —  square  rods  of  cups,  plates,  and  jars  in  all  manner 
of  russet  tints  and  graceful  shapes. 

The  various  divisions  were  intermingled  and  blent  into 
one  great  open-air  market,  the  cheeriest  sort  of  neighborhood 


In  Old  Castile  389 

picnic,  where  gossip,  jest,  and  laughter  were  accompanied  by 
the  cackling  of  fowls,  braying  of  donkeys,  and  cooing  of 
babies.  Here  fluttered  a  colony  of  bantams  cast,  their  legs 
well  tied,  down  on  the  cobble-stones  ;  there  stood  carts  laden 
with  bunches  of  the  yellowish  dried  heather ;  here  two 
patient  oxen  had  laid  themselves  out  for  a  snooze  ;  there  a 
wicked  little  ass  was  blinking  at  the  greens ;  here  squatted  a 
damsel  in  gold  kerchief,  garnet  bodice,  and  beryl  skirt,  weigh- 
ing out  fresh  figs  ;  there  sat  a  cobbler  pegging  away  at  his  stall, 
his  patrons  waiting  with  bare  feet  while  he  mended  their 
shoes  ;  stands  of  cheeses,  coops  of  chickens,  children  sleeping 
among  the  sacks  of  grain,  a  boy  waving  a  rod  on  which  was 
strung  a  gorgeous  assortment  of  garters ;  loitering  soldiers, 
limping  beggars,  bargaining  ladies  attended  by  their  maids,  all 
gave  notes  to  the  harmony.  Yet  with  all  that  trampling, 
small  weeds  were  growing  green  amid  the  slippery  stones 
that  pave  the  square. 

The  Leon  peasantry  is  said  to  be  the  finest  in  all  Spain,  and 
surely  no  concourse  of  people  could  have  been  more  honest, 
courteous,  and  dignified  than  this.  The  women  wore  orna- 
mented wallets  beneath  the  skirt,  and  warned  us  gravely 
against  carrying  money  in  exposed  pockets ;  but  we  moved 
freely  among  the  press  with  notebook  and  kodak,  always  the 
centre  of  curious  groups,  and  our  purses  were  not  touched. 
Indeed  we  found  it  difficult  to  spend  even  a  peseta,  so 
modest  were  the  prices.  For  as  large  a  jar  as  our  little 
squire  could  well  carry  we  paid  the  value  of  three  cents. 
The  men  often  rebuked  the  children  for  staring  and  ques- 
tioning, but  stood  themselves  at  gaze,  and  asked  us  frankly 
what  we  were  about.  When  we  replied  that  we  had  never 


390  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

seen  so  beautiful  a  market,  and  were  taking  notes  and  photo- 
graphs that  we  might  not  forget,  the  peasants  smilingly  passed 
the  word  from  one  side  of  the  plaza  to  the  other,  and  all, 
even  to  the  chief  of  police,  who  was  strutting  about  waving 
an  unnecessary  staff,  were  eager  to  offer  information  and  to 
point  out  picturesque  subjects. 

But  the  morning  was  slipping  away,  and  we  had  almost 
forgotten  the  oracle  of  a  Spanish  gentleman  in  Palencia : 
"  Leon  has  three  sights  for  the  visitor,  and  only  three  —  the 
Cathedral,  San  Isidoro,  and  San  Marcos."  We  proceeded  to 
take  these  illustrious  churches  in  order.  The  Leon  Cathedral, 
closely  analogous  to  the  Gothic  masterpieces  of  northern 
France,  is  far  beyond  all  poor  praises  of  mine.  Now  in  pro- 
cess of  repair  and  stripped  of  the  garish  shrines  of  modern 
worship,  it  may  be  enjoyed  purely  as  architecture  —  a  temple 
of  high  beauty.  Let  artists  tell  of  its  towers  and  finials,  fly- 
ing buttresses,  gables,  cornices,  galleries,  piers,  facades.  Yet 
one  need  not  be  an  artist  to  delight  in  the  glow  of  its  great 
rose  windows,  or  to  spend  fascinated  hours  poring  over  the 
chiselled  story  book  of  portals,  stalls,  and  cloisters.  Such 
inimitable  glass,  burning  still  with  the  fervors  of  the  mediaeval 
faith  !  And  such  a  world  of  divinity  and  humanity,  even 
down  to  childish  mischief,  in  those  multitudinous  carvings  ! 
The  Passion  scenes  are  repeated  over  and  over,  creation  and 
judgment  are  there,  the  life,  death,  and  ascension  of  the 
Virgin,  hero  legends,  animal  fables,  and  folk-lore.  Gothic 
energy  is  abundantly  manifest.  St.  George  smites  the 
dragon,  St.  Michael  tramples  the  devil,  Samson  splits  the 
lion's  jaws,  and  Santiago,  carved  in  ebony  on  a  door  in 
the  mellow-hued  old  cloisters,  is  riding  down  the  Moors  with 


Toi.EiH)  CATHKDRAI..     DOOR  OK  LIONS 


In  Old  Castile  391 

such  contagious  fury  that  the  very  tail  of  his  horse  is  twisted 
into  a  ferocious  quirk.  On  angel-guarded  tombs  pictures  of 
ancient  battle,  murder,  vengeance,  are  graven  in  the  long- 
remembering  stone.  But  marble  birds  peck  at  the  marble 
fruit,  the  ivory  peasant  drives  his  pigs,  the  alabaster  shepherd 
watches  his  flock,  the  lad  leads  his  donkey,  the  monk  feeds 
the  poor  at  the  abbey  gates,  and  plump  stone  priests, 
stowed  away  in  shadowy  niches,  make  merry  over  the  wine. 
If  we  had  revelled  overmuch  in  the  art  values  of  the  cathe- 
dral, San  Isidore  administered  a  prompt  corrective.  This 
Romanesque  church,  dating  from  the  beginning  of  the 
eleventh  century  and  a  forerunner  of  the  Escorial  in  that  it 
was  founded  by  the  first  Fernando  of  Castile  as  a  royal 
mausoleum,  is  excessively  holy.  Not  merely  are  the  bones  of 
the  patron  saint  kept  on  the  high  altar,  but  the  Host  is  on 
constant  exhibition  there.  Unaware  of  these  especial  sanc- 
tities, we  were  quietly  walking  toward  the  choir,  when  an 
angry  clamor  from  behind  caused  us  to  turn,  and  there, 
stretching  their  heads  out  over  the  railing  of  an  upper  gallery, 
was  a  line  of  furious  priests.  In  vain  the  sacristan  strove  to 
excuse  us,  "  foreigners  and  ladies,"  who  did  not  know  that 
we  were  expected  to  fall  upon  our  knees  on  first  entering  the 
door.  We  had  been  guilty  of  no  irreverence  beyond  this 
omission,  and  even  under  the  hail  of  priestly  wrath  did  our 
best  to  withdraw  correctly  without  turning  our  backs  to  the 
altar.  But  nothing  would  appease  that  scandalized  row  of 
gargoyles,  whose  violent  rudeness  seemed  to  us  the  greater 
dese'cration.  Thus  it  was  that  we  did  not  enter  the  frescoed 
chambers  of  the  actual  Panteon,  said  to  be  imposing  yet, 
although  the  royal  tombs  were  broken  up  by  the  French  in 


392  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

1808.  Very  wrong  in  the  French,  but  unless  the  manners 
of  San  Isidore's  bodyguard  have  degenerated,  the  soldiers  of 
Napoleon  may  have  had  their  provocation. 

It  was  now  high  noon,  and  the  market-place  had  poured 
all  its  peasants  out  upon  the  streets.  Groups  of  them  were 
lying  at  luncheon  under  the  trees,  passing  the  pigskin  bottle 
of  wine  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Beggars  were  standing  by 
and  blessing  them  in  return  for  scraps  of  the  coarse  and 
scanty  fare.  "  May  God  repay  !  May  the  saints  prosper  thy 
harvest !  " 

A  woman  riding  home,  sitting  erect  on  the  red-striped 
donkey-bag,  handed  a  plum  to  her  husband,  who  trudged  beside 
her  in  gray  linen  trunks  and  green  velveteen  waistcoat,  with 
a  white  square  of  cloth  set,  for  ornament,  into  the  middle  of 
the  back.  He  divided  the  fruit  with  a  pleading  cripple,  who 
called  after  them  as  devoutly  as  a  man  with  half  a  plum  in 
his  cheek  well  could,  "  May  the  Blessed  Virgin  ride  forth 
with  you  and  gladden  all  your  way  !  " 

We  had,  because  of  the  increasing  heat,  conjured  up  a 
carriage,  a  species  of  invalid  stage-coach,  and  were  therefore 
the  envy  of  little  schoolboys  in  blue  pinafores.  Their  straw 
satchels  bobbed  on  their  backs  as  they  gave  'chase  to  our 
clattering  ark  and  clung  to  steps  and  door.  This  mode  of 
locomotion  did  not  save  us  time,  for  our  coachman  had 
domestic  cares  on  his  mind  and  drew  up  to  bargain  for  a 
chicken,  which  finally  mounted  with  a  squall  to  the  box 
seat ;  but  in  due  Spanish  season  we  stopped  before  the  plate- 
resque  facade  of  San  Marcos. 

This  is  a  still  unfinished  convent,  rich  in  artistic  beauties 
and  historic  memories.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  marvellously 


In  Old  Castile  393 

human  head  of  St.  Francis,  a  triumph  of  the  polychrome 
sculpture,  and  here  is  the  little  cell  where  the  poet  Quevedo, 
"  colossal  genius  of  satire,"  was  imprisoned  for  over  three 
years  by  Philip  IV,  the  patron  of  Velazquez.  It  is  not  so 
easy  to  cage  a  mocking-bird,  though  the  satire-pencilled  walls 
have  been  well  whitewashed. 

But  San  Marcos  was  originally  a  hospital  for  pilgrims  on 
the  road  to  Compostela,  and  conch  shells  are  the  central  orna- 
mentation of  arch  and  vault  and  frieze.  We  accepted  the 
rebuke ;  we  would  loiter  no  more.  Early  that  afternoon  we 
took  train  for  Coruna,  after  which  some  agency  other  than 
steam  must  transport  us  to  the  mediaeval  city  of  St.  James. 


XXIV 

PILGRIMS    OF    SAINT    JAMES 

"  In  Galice  at  Seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne, 
She  koude  muchel  of  wandrynge  by  the  weye. '* 

—  CHAUCER  :    Canterbury  Tales'. 

ft  Pilgrimes  and  palmers  plihten  hem  to-gederes 
For  to  seche  Seint    ame. ' ' 

—  LANGLAND  :   Piers  Plowman. 

"  I  am  Saint  Jaques'  pilgrim,  thither  gone." 

—  SHAKESPEARE  :  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

FROM  Leon  to  Coruna  is  a  journey  of  some  eighteen 
hours  by  rail.  Degenerate  pilgrims  that  we  were, 
we  had  taken  a  first-class  carriage  reserved  for  ladies, 
not  so  comfortable  as  the  average  third-class  carriage  on  an 
English  road.  We  hoped  for  space,  at  least,  and  solitude, 
but  people  who  choose  to  pry  into  out-of-the-way  cor- 
ners of  Spain  need  not  expect  to  find  any  slavish  defer- 
ence to  rights  of  place  and  property.  The  conductor 
had  planned  to  dine  and  sleep  in  this  particular  compart- 
ment, which  was  a  shade  cleaner  than  the  rest,  and  re- 
moved his  kit  from  the  rack  with  natural  disappointment. 
Why  should  ladies  be  going  to  Galicia  ?  But  the  general 
first-class  compartment,  next  to  ours,  was  unoccupied,  and  he 
resignedly  transferred  his  belongings  thither.  The  numerous 
third-class  carriages  were  crowded  with  raw  recruits,  who  had 

394 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  395 

all  jumped  down,  boy  fashion,  on  the  Leon  platforms,  and 
came  scrambling  back  at  the  starting  bell  in  noisiest  confu- 
sion. Just  as  the  train  was  puffing  out,  a  station  official  threw 
open  our  door  with  a  smiling,  "Only  to  the  next  stop,  ladies  !" 
and  precipitated  upon  us  three  belated  warriors.  We  groaned 
inly  with  dark  foreboding,  for  third-class  occupancy  of  a  first- 
class  carriage  is  apt  to  leave  lively  souvenirs  behind.  Our 
three  young  soldiers,  each  with  his  personal  effects  bundled 
up  in  an  enormous  red  and  yellow  handkerchief,  were  of  the 
rudest  peasant  type,  hardly  lifted  above  animal  and  clod.  Only 
one  was  able  to  spell  out  anything  of  the  newspaper  we  offered. 
He  labored  over  a  large-lettered  advertisement  with  grimy 
thumb,  twisting  brows,  and  muttering  lips,  but  soon  gave  it 
up  in  sheer  exhaustion.  The  hulking  fellow  beyond  him  was 
continually  on  the  point  of  spitting,  —  a  regular  Spanish  pas- 
time in  travel ;  but,  determined  that  the  carriage  should  not 
suffer  that  offence,  I  kept  strict  watch  on  this  chrysalis  hero, 
and  embarrassed  him  into  stark  paralysis  with  questions  on  the 
landscape  whenever  he  was  quite  prepared  to  fire.  The  third 
conscript  was  a  ruddy,  fair-haired  boy  of  seventeen,  who  had 
in  rudimentary  form  the  social  instincts  of  a  Spaniard,  and  in 
his  intervals  of  blue-eyed  staring  at  the  tawdry  splendors  about 
him  hammered  our  ears  with  some  harsh  dialect,  his  one  theme 
being  the  indignities  and  hardships  of  a  Spanish  soldier's  lot. 
Yet  dull  as  they  were,  and  ignorant  of  railway  customs,  they 
knew  enough  to  prefer  broad  cushions,  whose  variety  of  stains 
did  not  trouble  their  enviable  simplicity,  to  the  rough  and 
narrow  benches  of  the  overcrowded  third-class  carriages, 
and  at  the  "  first  stop  "  they  unanimously  forgot  to  change. 
But  they  were  not  unkindly  lads,  and  after  I  had  explained 


396  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

to  them  a  dozen  times  or  so  that  my  friend  was  suffering 
from  a  headache  and  needed  to  lie  down,  and  had,  further- 
more, lawlessly  suggested  that  they  could  make  themselves 
equally  comfortable  in  the  other  first-class  carriage,  which 
was  not  "  reserved  for  ladies,"  they  promised  to  leave  us 
at  the  second  station ;  but  their  slow  peasant  hands  fum- 
bled at  the  door  so  clumsily  that  the  train  was  under  way 
again  before  the  latch  had  yielded.  It  was  not  until  we 
had  been  fellow-travellers  for  two  or  three  hours  that  they 
finally  stumbled  into  the  neighboring  compartment.  From 
this  the  conductor,  who  had  been  blind  and  deaf  to  past 
proceedings,  promptly  ejected  them,  having  no  mind  to  let 
them  make  acquaintance  with  his  wine  bottle,  and  our  poor 
exiles  cast  reproachful  glances  at  us  as  they  were  hustled  off 
to  their  own  place. 

We  have  sometimes  talked  enthusiastically  of  democracy, 
but  we  did  not  discuss  such  exalted  subjects  then.  Indeed, 
we  had  enough  to  do  in  guarding  our  doors,  often  by  frank 
exercise  of  muscle,  from  further  intrusion,  and  in  trying  to 
provide  ourselves  with  food  and  water.  A  struggling  mob  of 
soldier  boys  besieged  the  refreshment  stalls  at  every  station, 
and  drained  the  jars  of  the  water-venders  long  before  these 
could  arrive  at  the  car  windows.  At  last,  by  a  union  of  silver 
and  violence,  we  succeeded  in  gaining  from  an  astounded 
little  girl,  who  was  racing  after  the  departing  carriages, 
all  her  stock  in  trade,  even  the  great  russet  jar  itself, 
with  its  treasure  of  cold  spring  water.  The  historian 
possesses  a  special  genius  for  cooking  over  an  alcohol  lamp 
on  a  rocking  mountain  train,  and  having  augmented  our  knap- 
sack stores  with  scalded  milk  and  knobby  bread  from  a  tavern 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  397 

near  one  of  the  depots,  we  lived  like  feudal  barons  "  of  our 
own  "  for  the  rest  of  that  memorable  journey. 

Reminders  of  the  pilgrims  were  all  along  our  route.  Over- 
flowing as  Santiago's  young  knights  were  with  martial  and  ro- 
mantic spirit,  when  the  brigands  did  not  give  their  steel  sufficient 
sport  they  would  break  lances  for  the  love  of  ladies  or  on  any 
other  conceivable  pretext.  We  passed  the  bridge  of  twenty 
arches,  where  ten  companions  in  arms  once  posted  themselves 
for  ten  successive  days,  and  challenged  to  the  tilt  every  cava- 
lier who  came  that  way  in  journey  to  the  Compostela  jubilee. 

All  the  afternoon  we  were  climbing  into  the  hill-country. 
The  waste  slopes  were  starred  with  purple  clumps  of  heather, 
and  crossed  by  light-footed  maids,  who  balanced  great  bunches 
of  bracken  on  their  heads.  The  patches  of  green  valley, 
walled  in  by  those  barren  steeps,  held  each  a  few  tumble-down 
old  houses,  while  elsewhere  we  noticed  human  dwellings  that 
seemed  scarcely  more  than  nests  of  mud  plastered  to  the  stone. 
Yet  the  soil  appeared  to  be  cultivated  with  the  most  patient 
thrift,  —  wheat  and  potatoes  growing  wherever  wheat  and 
potatoes  might.  The  view  became  a  bewildering  medley  of 
Scottish  hills,  Italian  skies,  and  Gothic  castles,  with  occasion- 
ally a  tawny  and  fantastic  rock  from  the  Garden  of  the  Gods. 
The  city  of  Astorga,  whose  cathedral  was  founded,  so  the 
pilgrims  used  to  say,  by  St.  James  in  his  missionary  tour, 
greeted  us  from  the  midst  of  the  flinty  hills.  These  are  the 
home  of  a  singular  clan  known  as  the  Maragatos.  They  wear 
a  distinctive  dress,  marry  only  among  themselves,  and  turn  a 
sullen  look  upon  their  neighbors. 

As  night  came  on,  the  road  grew  so  rough  that  we  had  to 
cork  our  precious  water-jar  with  a  plump  lemon.  The  histo- 


398  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

rian  was  sleeping  off  her  headache,  except  as  I  woke  her  at 
the  stations  to  aid  in  the  defence  of  our  ignoble  luxury.  We 
remembered  that  queen  of  Portugal  who  made  the  pilgrimage 
to  Compostela  on  foot,  begging  her  way.  In  the  close- 
packed  third-class  carriages  it  must  have  been  a  cramped  and 
weary  night,  and  we  did  not  wonder  that  young  socialists 
occasionally  tried  to  raid  our  fortress.  But  we  clung  stoutly 
to  the  door-handles,  lustily  sounding  b\ir  war  cry  of  "  Ladies 
only  "  in  lieu  of  "  Santiago,"  and  early  in  the  small  hours  had 
the  shamefaced  pleasure  of  seeing  the  herd  of  drowsy  con- 
scripts, with  their  red  and  yellow  bundles,  driven  into 
another  train,  where  they  were  tumbled  two  or  three  deep, 
the  under  layer  struggling  and  protesting.  One  little  fellow, 
nearly  smothered  in  the  hurly-burly  about  the  steps,  cried  out 
pitifully  ;  but  the  conductor  silenced  him  with  angry  sarcasm : 
"  Dost  mean  to  be  a  soldier,  thou  ?  Or  shall  we  put  thee  in 
a  sugar-bowl  and  send  thee  back  to  mamma  ? " 

There  was  less  need  of  sentry  duty  after  this,  but  the  night 
was  too  beautiful  for  sleep.  We  were  crossing  the  wild 
Asturian  mountains,  the  Alps  of  Spain,  and  a  full  moon  was 
pouring  down  white  lustre  on  crag,  cascade,  and  gorge.  By 
these  perilous  ways  had  streamed  the  many-bannered  pilgrim 
hosts,  —  men  and  women  of  all  countries  and  all  tongues 
seeking  the  Jerusalem  of  the  West.  Each  nation  had  its  own 
hymn  to  Santiago,  and  these,  sung  to  the  mingled  music  of 
bagpipes,  timbrels,  bugles,  flutes,  and  harps,  must  have  pealed 
out  strangely  on  many  a  silver  night.  The  poor  went  begging 
of  the  rich,  and  often  a  mounted  crusader  cast  his  purse  of  broad 
gold  pieces  on  the  heather,  trusting  Santiago  and  his  own  good 
sword  to  see  him  through.  Up  and  down  these  sheer  ravines 


ST.  PAUL,  THE  FIRST  HERMIT 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  399 

stumbled  the  blind  and  lame,  sure  of  healing  if  only  they  could 
reach  the  shrine.  Deaf  and  dumb  went  in  the  pilgrim  ranks, 
the  mad,  the  broken-hearted,  the  sin-oppressed ;  only  the 
troop  of  lepers  held  apart.  Some  of  those  foot-sore  wayfarers, 
most  likely  the  raggedest  of  all,  carried  a  secret  treasure  for 
the  saint.  Some  staggered  under  penitential  weights  of  lead 
and  stone,  and  others  bore  loads  of  bars  and  fetters  in  token 
of  captivity  from  which  St.  James  had  set  them  free. 

But  these  pathetic  shapes  no  longer  peopled  the  moonlight. 
Since  it  was  the  nineteenth  century,  a  first-class  passenger 
might  as  well  lie  down  and  watch  the  gracious  progress  of  the 
moon  across  the  heavens, — 

ft  Oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. ' ' 

But  the  clouds  perversely  made  of  themselves  wayside 
crosses,  urns,  cathedral  towers ;  and  just  as  one  sky-creature, 
"  backed  like  a  weasel "  but  with  the  face  of  Santiago,  began 
to  puff  a  monstrous  cigarette,  I  roused  my  dozing  senses  and 
discovered  that  we  were  entering  Lugo,  the  capital  of  Galicia, 
and  once,  under  Roman  rule,  of  all  Spain. 

This  city  of  tumultuous  history,  stormed  by  one  wild  race 
after  another,  and  twice  sacked  in  our  own  century,  first  by 
the  French  and  then  by  the  Carlists,  lay  very  peacefully  under 
the  white  dawn.  While  the  chivalrous  Spanish  sun  rose 
unobtrusively,  so  as  not  to  divert  attention  from  the  fading 
graces  of  the  moon,  the  historian  made  sustaining  coffee,  and 
we  tried  to  look  as  if  we  liked  Galicia.  This  far  north- 
western province  is  the  Boeotia  of  Spain  ;  its  stupid,  patient 
peasantry  are  the  butt  of  all  the  Peninsula,  and  to  be  called  a 


400  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

Gallego  is  to  be  called  a  fool.  The  country,  as  we  saw  it 
from  the  train,  was  broken  and  hilly,  but  the  Alpine  majesty 
of  Asturias  was  gone.  In  the  misty  drizzle  of  rain,  which 
soon  hushed  the  pipings  of  the  birds,  all  the  region  looked 
wretchedly  poor.  It  was  a  wooded,  watered,  well-tilled 
land,  with  tufts  of  heather  brightly  fringing  every  bank ;  but 
the  houses  were  mere  cabins,  where  great,  gaunt,  dark-colored 
pigs  pushed  in  and  out  among  bedraggled  hens  and  half-clad 
children.  Women  were  working  in  the  fields  by  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  their  saffron  and  carmine  kerchiefs  twisted  into 
horns  above  the  forehead.  Women  were  serving  as  porters 
at  the  stations,  carrying  heavy  trunks  and  loads  of  valises  on 
their  heads.  Women  were  driving  the  plough,  swinging  the 
pickaxe  in  the  quarries,  mending  the  railway  tracks.  Short, 
stout,  vigorous  brownies  they  were,  and  most  of  them  looked 
old. 

It  was  mid-forenoon  when  we  reached  Corufia,  the  seaport 
whence  sailed  the  Invincible  Armada.  We  had  meant  to 
rest  there  for  the  afternoon  and  night  before  undertaking  the 
forty-mile  drive  to  Santiago,  but  the  hotel  was  so  filthy  that, 
tired  as  we  were,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on. 
Tarrying  only  for  bath  and  breakfast,  we  took  our  places  in 
a  carriage  which,  setting  out  at  one,  promised  to  bring  us 
into  Santiago  in  time  for  the  eight  o'clock  dinner. 

This  conveyance  was  a  species  of  narrow  omnibus,  which 
an  Andalusian,  an  Englishman,  a  son  of  Compostela  return- 
ing home  after  a  long  sojourn  in  foreign  parts,  his  young 
wife  of  Jewish  features,  and  our  weary  selves  filled  to  over- 
flowing. Our  Jehu  had  agreed  to  transport  the  six  of  us, 
with  our  effects,  for  the  sum  of  sixteen  dollars ;  but  deep  was 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  401 

our  disgust  when  he  piled  our  handbags,  shawl  straps,  and 
all  our  lesser  properties  in  upon  our  wedged  and  helpless 
forms,  and  crammed  six  rough  Gallegos,  with  a  reeling  load 
of  trunks  and  boxes,  on  the  roof.  Remonstrance  would  be 
futile.  The  places  in  the  regular  diligence  were  not  only 
taken  for  the  afternoon  but  engaged  for  several  days  ahead, 
and  carriages  are  rare  birds  in  Galicia.  The  Spanish  gentle- 
men merely  shrugged  their  shoulders,  the  Englishman  had  but 
that  morning  landed  in  Spain  and  could  not  speak  a  word  of 
the  vernacular,  and  feminine  protest  was  clearly  out  of  order. 
The  four  puny  horses  took  the  top-heavy  vehicle  at  a  rattling 
pace  down  the  granite-paved  streets  of  Coruna,  but  hardly 
were  we  under  way  when  our  griefs  began. 

On  our  arrival  that  forenoon,  a  fluent  porter  had  over- 
persuaded  us  to  leave  our  trunk  at  the  station,  letting  him 
retain  the  check  in  order  to  have  the  baggage  ready  for  us 
when  we  should  pass  the  depot  en  route  for  Santiago.  We 
had  been  absent  scarcely  three  hours,  but  meanwhile  the 
trunk  had  disappeared.  A  dozen  tatterdemalions  ran  hither 
and  thither,  making  as  much  noise  as  possible,  all  the  top 
fares  shouted  contradictory  suggestions,  and  our  porter,  heap- 
ing Ossa-Pelions  of  execration  upon  the  (absent)  railroad 
officials,  declared  that  they  in  their  most  reprobate  stupidity 
had  started  the  trunk  on  that  eighteen-hour  journey  back  to 
Leon.  They  were  dolts  and  asses,  the  sons  of  imbecile 
mothers ;  but  we  had  only  to  leave  the  check  with  him,  and 
in  the  course  of  an  indefinite  number  of  "  to-morrows  "  he 
would  recover  our  property.  We  had  grown  sadder  and 
wiser  during  the  last  five  minutes,  however,  and  insisted  on 
taking  that  soiled  inch  of  paper  into  our  own  keeping.  At 


402  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

this  the  porter  flew  into  a  Spanish  rage,  flung  back  his  fee 
into  my  lap,  and  so  eloquently  expressed  himself  that  we  left 
Coruna  with  stinging  ears. 

It  was  the  historian's  trunk,  stored  with  supplies  for  the 
camera,  as  well  as  with  sundry  alleviations  of  our  pilgrim  lot, 
but  she  put  it  in  the  category  of  spilled  milk,  and  turned  with 
heroic  cheerfulness  to  enjoy  the  scenery.  The  horses  had 
now  drooped  into  the  snail's  pace  which  they  consistently 
maintained  through  the  rest  of  their  long,  uphill  way,  for  the 
city  of  the  Apostle  stands  on  a  high  plateau.  As  we  mounted 
more  and  more,  Coruna,  lying  between  bay  and  sea,  still  shone 
clear  across  the  widening  reach  of  smiling  landscape.  Maize 
and  vines  were  everywhere.  So  were  peasants,  who  trudged 
along  in  family  troops  toward  Compostela.  But  whether 
afoot  or  astride  donkeys  of  antique  countenance,  they  could 
always  outstrip  our  lumbering  coach,  and  we  were  an  easy 
prey  for  the  hordes  of  childish  bandits  who  chase  vehicles 
for  miles  along  the  pilgrim  road,  shrieking  for  pennies  in  the 
name  of  Santiago. 

About  two  leagues  out  of  Coruna  we  did  pass  something, 
—  a  group  composed  of  a  young  Gallego  and  the  most  diminu- 
tive of  donkeys.  The  peasant,  walking  beside  his  beast,  was 
trying  to  balance  across  its  back  an  object  unwonted  to  those 
wilds. 

"  Strange  to  see  a  steamer  trunk  here  !  "  I  remarked,  turn- 
ing to  the  historian  ;  but  she  was  already  leaning  out  from  the 
window,  inspecting  that  label-speckled  box  with  an  eagle  gaze. 

"  It's  mine  ! "  she  exclaimed,  and  in  a  twinkling  had 
startled  the  driver  into  pulling  up  his  horses,  had  leapt  from 
the  coach,  and  was  running  after  the  peasant,  who,  for  his  part, 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  403 

swerving  abruptly  from  the  main  road,  urged  his  panting 
donkey  up  a  steep  lane.  Nobody  believed  her.  Even  I,  her 
fellow-pilgrim,  thought  her  wits  were  addling  with  our  peni- 
tential fasts  and  vigils,  and  did  not  attempt  to  join  in  so  mad  a 
chase.  As  for  the  scandalized  Spaniards,  inside  and  out,  they 
shouted  angrily  that  the  thing  was  impossible  and  the  senora 
was  to  come  back.  The  coachman  roared  loudest  of  all. 
But  on  she  dashed,  ran  down  her  man,  and  bade  him,  in  in- 
spired Galician,  bring  that  trunk  to  the  omnibus  at  once.  He 
scratched  his  head,  smiled  a  child's  innocent  and  trustful  smile, 
and,  like  a  true  Gallego,  did  as  he  was  told.  By  this  time 
masculine  curiosity  had  been  too  much  for  the  driver  and 
most  of  the  fares,  and  they  had  scrambled  after,  so  that  the 
few  of  us  who  kept  guard  by  the  carriage  presently  beheld  an 
imposing  procession  advancing  along  the  road,  consisting  of  a 
Galician  peasant  with  a  steamer  trunk  upon  his  head,  a  group 
of  crestfallen  Spaniards,  and  a  Yankee  lady,  slightly  flushed, 
attended  by  an  applauding  Englishman. 

Beyond  a  doubt  it  was  her  trunk.  Her  name  was  there,  a 
New  York  hotel  mark,  which  she  had  tried  to  obliterate  with 
a  blot  of  Leon  ink,  and  the  number  corresponding  to  the 
number  of  our  check.  "  By  Jove  !  "  said  the  Englishman. 
As  for  the  peasant,  he  said  even  less,  but  in  some  way  gave 
us  to  understand  that  he  was  taking  the  trunk  to  a  gentleman 
from  Madrid.  Thinking  that  there  might  have  been  a  confu- 
sion of  checks  in  the  station,  we  gave  this  childlike  native  a 
peseta  and  a  card  with  our  Santiago  address  in  case  u  the 
Madrid  gentleman "  should  suspect  us  of  highway  robbery. 
Our  fellow-passengers  took  the  tale  to  Santiago,  however ;  it 
made  a  graphic  column  in  the  local  paper,  and  none  of  the 


404  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

several  Spaniards  who  spoke  to  us  of  the  matter  there  doubted 
that  the  trunk  was  stolen  by  collusion  between  the  porter  and 
the  peasant. 

Our  next  adventure  was  more  startling  yet.  The  coach- 
man had  been  heard,  at  intervals,  vehemently  expostulating 
with  a  roof  passenger  who  wanted  to  get  down.  "  Man  alive ! 
By  the  staff  of  Santiago  !  By  your  mother's  head  !  By  the 
Virgin  of  the  Pillar !  "  Whether  the  malcontent  had  taken 
too  much  wine,  whether  he  was  under  legal  arrest,  whether  it 
was  merely  a  crossing  of  whims,  we  could  not  learn  from  any 
of  the  impassioned  actors  in  the  drama ;  but,  apparently,  he 
found  his  opportunity  to  slip  unnoticed  off  the  coach.  For 
suddenly  the  driver  screamed  to  his  horses,  and,  like  a  bolt 
from  the  blue,  a  handsome,  athletic  fellow  leapt  to  the  ground 
and  rushed  back  along  the  dusty  road,  brandishing  clenched 
fists  and  stamping  his  feet  in  frenzy.  In  mid-career  he  paused, 
struck  a  stage  attitude,  tore  open  his  pink  shirt,  gasped,  and 
shook  with  rage.  "  Irving  isn't  in  it,"  quoth  the  Englishman. 
Then  appeared,  lurking  by  the  roadside,  a  slouchy  youth,  on 
whom  our  tragic  hero  sprang  like  a  tiger,  threw  him  down, 
and  stood  panting  over  him  with  a  gesture  as  if  to  stab.  An 
instant  later  he  had  seized  his  victim  by  the  collar,  dragged 
him  up,  and  was  running  him  back  to  the  coach.  "You  hurt 
me,"  wailed  the  truant,  "  and  I  don't  want  to  go."  But  go  he 
must,  being  bundled  back  in  short  order  on  the  roof,  where 
harmony  seemed  to  be  immediately  restored.  While  the  men 
were  struggling,  a  lordly  old  peasant,  stalking  by,  surveyed 
them  with  a  peasant's  high  disdain.  We  had  already  noted  the 
Irish  look  of  the  Galicians,  but  this  magnificent  patriarch,  with 
dark  green  waistcoat  over  a  light  green  shirt,  old  gold  knicker- 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  405 

bockers  and  crushed  strawberry  hose,  had  as  Welsh  a  face,  dark 
and  clean-cut,  as  Snowdon  ever  saw. 

Long  sunset  shadows  lay  across  the  hills ;  we  had  shared 
with  our  companions  our  slight  stores  of  sweet  chocolate, 
bread,  and  wine,  and  still  we  were  not  halfway  to  Santiago. 
It  was  nine  o'clock  before  our  groaning  equipage  drew  up  at 
a  wretched  little  inn,  incredibly  foul,  where  it  was  necessary 
to  bait  the  exhausted  horses.  Mine  host  welcomed  the  party 
with  pensive  dignity,  and  served  us,  in  the  midst  of  all  that 
squalor,  with  the  manners  of  a  melancholy  count.  Shutting 
eyes  and  noses  as  far  as  we  could,  and  blessing  eggs  for  shells 
and  fruit  for  rind,  we  ate  and  gathered  strength  to  bear  what 
St.  James  might  yet  have  in  store  for  us. 

The  diligence  had  resumed  its  weary  jog ;  we  were  all  more 
or  less  asleep,  unconsciously  using,  in  our  crowded  estate,  one 
another  as  pillows,  when  an  uproar  from  the  box  and  a  wild 
lurch  of  the  coach  brought  us  promptly  to  our  waking  senses. 
One  of  the  wheel  horses  was  down,  and  the  others,  frightened 
by  the  dragging  harness,  were  rearing  and  plunging.  Out  we 
tumbled  into  the  misty  night,  wondering  if  we  were  destined, 
after  all,  to  foot  it  to  Compostela  in  proper  pilgrim  fashion. 
The  poor  beast  was  mad  with  terror,  and  his  struggles  soon 
brought  his  mate  to  the  ground  beside  him.  The  coachman, 
so  pompous  and  dictatorial  at  the  outset,  stood  helplessly  in 
the  road,  at  a  safe  distance,  wringing  his  hands  and  crying  like 
a  baby  :  "  Alas,  poor  me  !  Poor  little  me  !  O  holy  Virgin  ! 
Santiago  !  "  The  top  fares,  who  had  made  good  speed  to  terra 
firma,  were  wailing  in  unison  and  shrieking  senseless  counsels. 
"  Kill  thou  the  horse  !  Kill  thou  the  horse  !  "  one  of  them 
chanted  like  a  Keltic  dirge.  The  coachman  supplied  the 


406  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

antiphon  :  "Kill  not  my  horse!  Kill  not  my  horse!  Ave 
Maria!  Poor  little  me!"  "Fools!  Sit  on  his  head," 
vociferated  the  Englishman  in  his  vain  vernacular.  The 
horses  seemed  to  have  as  many  legs  as  centipedes,  kicking  all 
at  once.  The  coach  was  toppling,  the  luggage  pitching,  and 
catastrophe  appeared  inevitable,  when  Santiago,  such  an  excel- 
lent horseman  himself,  inspired  one  of  the  roof  passengers  to 
unbuckle  a  few  straps.  The  effect  was  magical.  First  one 
nag,  and  then  the  other,  struggled  to  its  feet  j  the  coachman 
sobbed  anew,  this  time  for  joy ;  the  Spanish  gentlemen,  who 
had  been  watching  the  scene  with  imperturbable  passivity, 
crawled  back  into  the  diligence,  the  silent  wife  followed  with 
the  heavy  bag  which  her  husband  had  let  her  carry  all  the 
way,  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  contingent  walked  on  ahead  for 
half  an  hour  to  give  the  spent  horses  what  little  relief  we 
might. 

The  clocks  were  striking  two  when  we  reached  the  gates 
of  the  sacred  city,  where  fresh  hindrance  met  us.  The  cus- 
toms officials  were  on  the  alert.  Who  were  we  that  would 
creep  into  Compostela  de  Santiago  under  cover  of  night,  in 
an  irregular  conveyance  piled  high  with  trunks  and  boxes  ? 
Smugglers,  beyond  a  doubt !  But  they  would  teach  us  a  thing 
or  two.  We  might  wait  outside  till  morning. 

Delighted  boys  from  a  peasant  camp  beyond  the  walls  ran 
up  to  jeer  at  our  predicament.  Our  coachman,  reverting  to 
his  dolorous  chant,  appealed  to  all  the  saints.  The  top  fares 
shrilled  in  on  the  chorus ;  the  Spanish  gentlemen  lighted 
cigarettes,  and  after  some  twenty  minutes  of  dramatic  alterca- 
tion, a  soldier  sprang  on  our  top  step  and  mounted  guard, 
while  the  coach  rattled  through  the  gates  and  on  to  the 


MAIDS  OF  HONOR 


Pilgrims  of  Saint  James  407 

aduana.  Here  we  were  deposited,  bag  and  baggage,  on 
the  pavement,  and  a  drowsy,  half-clad  old  dignitary  was 
brought  forth  to  look  at  us.  The  coachman,  all  his  social 
graces  restored,  imaginatively  presented  the  three  Anglo- 
Saxons  as  a  French  party  travelling  for  pleasure.  "  But 
what  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?  "  groaned  the  dignitary,  and 
went  back  to  bed.  An  appalling  group  of  serenos,  in  slouch 
hats  and  long  black  capes,  with  lanterns  and  with  staffs  topped 
by  steel  axes,  escorted  us  into  a  sort  of  luggage  room,  and 
told  us  to  sit  down  on  benches.  We  sat  on  them  for  half  an 
hour,  which  seemed  to  satisfy  the  ends  of  justice,  for  then 
the  serenos  gave  place  to  porters,  who  said  they  would  bring 
us  our  property,  which  nobody  had  examined  or  noticed  in 
the  slightest,  after  daybreak,  and  would  now  show  us  the 
way  to  our  hotel.  Our  farewell  to  the  coachman,  who  came 
beaming  up  to  shake  hands  and  receive  thanks,  was  cold. 

We  had  engaged  rooms  by  letter  a  week  in  advance,  but 
they  had  been  surrendered  to  earlier  arrivals,  and  we  were 
conducted  to  a  private  house  next  door  to  the  hotel.  After 
the  delays  incident  to  waking  an  entire  family,  we  were 
taken  into  a  large,  untidy  room,  furnished  with  dining  table, 
sewing  machine,  and  a  half  dozen  decrepit  chairs.  There 
was  no  water  and  no  sign  of  toilet  apparatus,  but  in  an 
adjoining  dark  closet  were  two  narrow  cots,  from  which  the 
four  daughters  of  the  house  had  just  been  routed.  Of  those 
beds  which  these  sleepy  children  were  then,  with  unruffled 
sweetness  and  cheeriness,  making  ready  for  us,  the  less  said 
the  better.  Our  indoor  hours  in  Compostela,  an  incessant 
battle  against  dirt,  bad  smells,  and  a  most  instructive  variety 
of  vermin,  were  a  penance  that  must  have  met  all  pilgrim 


408  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

requirements.  And  yet  these  people  spared  no  pains  to  make 
us  comfortable,  so  far  as  they  understood  comfort.  At  our 
slightest  call,  were  it  only  for  a  match,  in  would  troop  the 
mother,  four  daughters,  maid,  dog,  and  cat,  with  any  of  the 
neighbors  who  might  be  visiting,  all  eager  to  be  of  service. 
The  girls  were  little  models  of  sunny  courtesy,  and  would 
have  been  as  pretty  of  face  as  they  were  charming  in  manner, 
had  not  skin  diseases  and  eye  diseases  told  the  tale  of  the 
hideously  unsanitary  conditions  in  which  their  young  lives 
had  been  passed. 

But  we  had  come  to  the  festival  of  Santiago,  and  it  was 
worth  its  price. 


XXV 

THE    BUILDING    OF    A    SHRINE 

(A  historical  chapter,  which  should  be  skipped.) 

THAT  most  Spanish  of  Spaniards,  Alarcon,  is  pleased 
in  one  of  his  roguish  sketches  to  depict  the  wayward- 
ness of  a  certain  poetaster.  "  Alonso  Alonso  was 
happy  because  he  was  thinking  of  many  sad  things,  —  of  the 
past  centuries,  vanished  like  smoke,  ...  of  the  little  span  of 
life  and  of  the  absurdities  with  which  it  is  rilled,  of  the  folly 
of  wisdom,  of  the  nothingness  of  ambition,  of  all  this  comedy, 
in  short,  which  is  played  upon  the  earth." 

Alonso  Alonso  would  be  in  his  very  element  in  Santiago  de 
Compostela.  The  "  unsubstantial  pageant  faded "  of  the 
mediaeval  world  is  more  than  memory  there.  It  is  a  ghost 
that  walks  at  certain  seasons,  notably  from  the  twentieth  to 
the  twenty-eighth  of  July.  The  story  of  the  birth,  growth, 
and  passing  of  that  once  so  potent  shrine,  the  Jerusalem  of  the 
West,  is  too  significant  for  oblivion. 

The  corner-stone  of  the  strange  history  is  priestly  legend. 
The  Apostle  James  the  Greater,  so  runs  the  tale,  after  preach- 
ing in  Damascus  and  along  the  Mediterranean  coast,  came  in 

O  O  * 

a  Greek  ship  to  Galicia,  then  under  Roman  rule,  and  pro- 
claimed the  gospel  in  its  capital  city,  Iria-Flavia.      Here  the 

409 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Virgin  appeared  to  him,  veiled,  like  the  mother  of  ./Eneas,  in 
a  cloud,  and  bade  him  build  a  church.  This  he  did,  putting 
a  bishop  in  charge,  and  then  pursued  his  mission,  not  only  in 
the  remote  parts  of  Galicia,  but  in  Aragon,  Castile,  and  Anda- 
lusia. At  Saragossa  the  Virgin  again  flashed  upon  his  sight. 
She  was  poised,  this  time,  on  a  marble  pillar,  which  she  left 
behind  her  to  become,  what  it  is  to-day,  the  most  sacred  object 
in  all  Spain.  A  chip  of  this  columna  immobilis  is  one  of  the 
treasures  of  Toledo.  The  cathedral  of  the  Virgen  del  Pilar, 
—  affectionately  known  as  Pilarica, —  which  James  then 
founded  at  Saragossa,  is  still  a  popular  goal  of  pilgrimage,  the 
marble  of  the  holy  column  being  hollowed,  at  one  unshielded 
spot,  by  countless  millions  of  kisses.  The  Apostle,  on  his 
return  to  Jerusalem  after  seven  years  in  Spain,  was  beheaded 
by  Herod.  Loyal  disciples  recovered  the  body  and  set  sail 
with  it  for  the  Spanish  coast.  Off  Portugal  occurred  the 
pointless  "  miracle  of  the  shells."  A  gentleman  was  riding 
on  the  shore,  when  all  at  once  his  horse,  refusing  to  obey  the 
bit,  leapt  into  the  sea,  walking  on  the  crests  of  the  waves 
toward  the  boat.  Steed  and  rider  suddenly  sank,  but  promptly 
rose  again,  all  crusted  over  with  shells,  which  have  been  ever 
since  regarded  as  the  emblem  of  St.  James  in  particular,  and 
of  pilgrim  folk  in  general. 

*'  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff 
And  his  sandal  shoon." 

The  Santiago  "  cockle,"  which  thus,  as  a  general  pilgrim 
symbol,  outstripped  the  keys  of  Rome  and  the  cross  of  Jerusa- 


The  Building  of  a  Shrine  411 

lem,  is  otherwise  accounted  for  by  a  story  that  the  body  of  St. 
James  was  borne  overseas  to  Galicia  in  a  shell  of  miraculous 
size,  but  this  is  not  the  version  that  was  told  us  at  the  shrine. 

The  two  disciples,  Theodore  and  Athanasius,  temporarily 
interred  their  master  in  Padron,  two  leagues  from  Iria,  until 
they  should  have  obtained  permission  from  the  Roman  dame 
who  governed  that  region  to  allow  St.  James  the  choice  of  a 
resting-place.  Her  pagan  heart  was  moved  to  graciousness, 
and  she  lent  the  disciples  an  ox-cart,  in  which  they  placed  the 
body,  leaving  the  beasts  free  to  take  the  Apostle's  course.  It 
is  hardly  miraculous  that,  under  the  circumstances,  Lady 
Lupa's  oxen  plodded  straight  back  to  Iria  and  came  to  a  stop 
before  her  summer  villa.  Since  this  was  so  clearly  indicated 
as  the  choice  of  the  saint,  she  could  do  no  less  than  put  her 
house  at  his  disposal.  In  the  villa  was  a  chapel  to  the  war- 
god  Janus,  but  when  the  body  of  Santiago  was  brought  within 
the  doors,  this  heathen  image  fell  with  a  crash  into  a  hundred 
fragments.  Here  the  saint  abode,  guarded  by  his  faithful  dis- 
ciples, until,  in  process  of  time,  they  slept  beside  him.  The 
villa  had  been  transformed  into  a  little  church,  so  little  that, 
when  the  Imperial  persecutions  stormed  over  the  Spanish  prov- 
inces, the  worshippers  hid  it  under  heaps  of  turf  and  tangles 
of  brier  bushes.  Those  early  Christians  of  Iria  were  slain  or 
scattered,  and  the  burial  place  of  St.  James  was  forgotten  of 
all  the  world. 

In  the  seventh  century,  a  rumor  went  abroad  that  the 
Apostle  James  had  preached  the  gospel  in  Spain.  The  legend 
grew  until,  in  the  year  813,  a  Galician  anchorite  beheld  from 
the  mouth  of  his  cavern  a  brilliant  star,  which  shone  persist- 
ently above  a  certain  bramble-wood  in  the  outskirts  of  Iria. 


412  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

Moving  lights,  as  of  processional  tapers,  twinkled  through  the 
matted  screen  of  shrubbery,  and  solemn  chants  arose  from  the 
very  heart  of  the  boscage.  Word  of  this  mystery  came  to 
the  bishop,  who  saw  with  his  own  eyes  "  the  glow  of  many 
candles  through  the  shadows  of  the  night."  After  three  days 
of  fasting,  he  led  all  the  villagers  in  procession  to  the  thicket 
which  had  grown  up,  a  protecting  hedge,  about  the  ruins  of 
the  holy  house.  The  three  graves  were  found  intact,  and  on 
opening  the  chief  of  these  the  bishop  looked  upon  the  body 
of  St.  James,  as  was  proven  not  only  by  severed  head  and  pil- 
grim staff,  but  by  a  Latin  scroll.  The  swiftest  horsemen  of 
Galicia  bore  the  glorious  tidings  to  the  court  of  the  king,  that 
most  Christian  monarch,  Alfonso  II,  "  very  Catholic,  a  great 
almsgiver,  defender  of  the  Faith."  So  loved  of  heaven  was 
this  pious  king,  that  once,  when  he  had  collected  a  treasure 
of  gold  and  precious  stones  for  the  making  of  a  cross,  two 
angels,  disguised  as  pilgrims,  undertook  the  work.  When, 
after  a  few  hours,  Alfonso  came  softly  to  the  forge  to  make 
sure  of  their  honesty  and  skill,  no  artisans  were  there,  but 
from  an  exquisitely  fashioned  cross  streamed  a  celestial  glory. 
So  devout  a  king,  on  hearing  the  great  tidings  from  Galicia, 
lost  no  time  in  despatching  couriers  to  his  bishops  and 
grandees,  and  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  Spain,  headed  by 
majesty  itself,  flocked  to  the  far-off  hamlet  beyond  the  Astu- 
rian  mountains  to  adore  the  relics  of  Santiago. 

Now  began  grand  doings  in  Iria,  known  henceforth  as  the 
Field  of  the  Star,  Campus  Stellce,  or  Compostela.  Alfonso  had 
a  church  of  stone  and  clay  built  above  the  sepulchre,  and 
endowed  it  with  an  estate  of  three  square  miles.  The  Pope 
announced  the  discovery  to  Christendom.  A  community  of 


The  Building  of  a  Shrine  413 

twelve  monks,  with  a  presiding  abbot,  was  installed  at  Com- 
postela  to  say  masses  before  the  shrine.  For  these  beginnings 
of  homage  the  Apostle  made  a  munificent  return.  A  wild  peo- 
ple, living  in  a  wild  land  at  a  wild  time,  these  Spaniards  of  the 
Middle  Ages  were  shaped  and  swayed  by  two  sovereign 
impulses,  piety  and  patriotism.  These  two  were  practically 
one,  for  patriotism  meant  the  expulsion  of  the  Moor,  and 
piety,  Cross  above  Koran.  It  was  a  life-and-death  struggle. 
The  dispossessed  Christians,  beaten  back  from  Andalusia  and 
Castile  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  northern  mountains,  were  fight- 
ing against  fearful  odds.  They  felt  sore  need  of  a  leader,  for 
although,  when  their  ranks  were  wavering,  the  Virgin  had 
sometimes  appeared  to  cheer  them  on,  hers,  after  all,  was  but 
a  woman's  arm.  It  was  in  the  battle  of  Clavijo,  846,  that 
Santiago  first  flashed  into  view,  an  invincible  champion  of  the 
cross. 

Rameiro,  successor  to  Alfonso  II,  had  taken  the  field 
against  the  terrible  Abderrahman  of  Cordova,  who  had 
already  overrun  Valencia  and  Barcelona  and  was  demanding 
from  Galicia  a  yearly  tribute  of  one  hundred  maidens.  This 
exceedingly  Moorish  tax,  which  now  amuses  Madrid  as  a  rat- 
tling farce  in  the  summer  theatre  of  the  Buen  Retiro,  was  no 
jesting  matter  then.  Not  only  the  most  famous  warriors  of 
the  realm,  Bernardo  del  Carpio  in  their  van,  but  shepherds 
and  ploughmen,  priests,  monks,  even  bishops,  flocked  to  the 
royal  standard. 

"  A  cry  went  through  the  mountains  when  the  proud  Moor  drew  near, 
And  trooping  to  Rameiro  came  every  Christian  spear; 
The  blessed  Saint  lago,  they  called  upon  his  name  :  — 
That  day  began  our  freedom,  and  wiped  away  our  shame." 


414  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

The  hosts  of  Cross  and  Crescent  met  in  battle-shock  near 
Logrono.  Only  nightfall  saved  the  Christians  from  utter 
rout,  but  in  those  dark  hours  of  their  respite  the  apparition 
of  Santiago  bent  above  their  sleeping  king.  "  Fear  not, 
Rameiro,"  said  the  august  lips.  "  The  enemy,  master  of 
the  field,  hems  you  in  on  every  side,  but  God  fights  in  your 
ranks."  At  sunrise,  in  the  very  moment  when  the  Moslem 
host  was  bowed  in  prayer,  the  Christians,  scandalized  at  the 
spectacle,  charged  in  orthodox  fury.  Their  onset  was  led 
by  an  unknown  knight,  gleaming  in  splendid  panoply  of  war. 
Far  in  advance,  his  left  hand  waving  a  snowy  banner  stamped 
with  a  crimson  cross,  he  spurred  his  fierce  white  horse  full 
on  the  infidel  army.  His  brandished  sword  "  hurled  light- 
ning against  the  half-moon."  At  his  every  sweeping  stroke, 
turbaned  heads  rolled  off  by  scores  to  be  trampled,  as  tur- 
baned  heads  deserve,  under  the  hoofs  of  that  snorting  steed. 
The  Son  of  Thunder  had  found  his  function,  which  was 
nothing  less  than  to  inspirit  the  Reconquest.  Henceforth 
he  could  always  be  counted  on  to  lead  a  desperate  assault, 
and  "  Santiago  y  Cierra  Espana! "  was  the  battle-cry  of 
every  hard-fought  field.  So  late  as  1212,  at  the  crucial 
contest  of  Las  Navas  de  Tolosa,  the  "  Captain  of  the  Span- 
iards "  saved  the  day. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  such  bloody  prowess  on  the 
part  of  Christ's  disciple,  the  fisherman  of  Galilee,  he  could 
not  have  taken,  in  that  stormy  age,  a  surer  course  to  make 
himself  respected.  All  Europe  sprang  to  do  honor  to  a 
saint  who  could  fight  like  that.  Charlemagne,  guided  by  the 
Milky  Way,  visited  the  shrine,  if  the  famous  old  Codex 
Calixtinus  may  be  believed,  with  its  convincing  print  of  the 


The  Building  of  a  Shrine  415 

Apostle  sitting  upright  in  his  coffin  and  pointing  the  great 
Karl  to  the  starry  trail.  In  process  of  time  the  Gran  Capitan 
came  bustling  from  Granada.  The  king  of  Jerusalem  did 
not  find  the  road  too  long,  nor  did  the  Pope  of  Rome  count 
it  too  arduous.  England  sent  her  first  royal  Edward,  and 
France  more  than  one  royal  Louis.  Counts  and  dukes,  lords 
and  barons,  rode  hundreds  of  miles  to  Compostela,  at  the 
head  of  feudal  bands  which  sometimes  clashed  by  the  way. 
Saints  of  every  clime  and  temper  made  the  glorious  pil- 
grimage, —  Gregory,  Bridget,  Bernard,  Francis  of  Assisi. 
To  the  shrine  of  St.  James  came  the  Cid  in  radiant  youth 
to  keep  the  vigil  of  arms  and  receive  the  honors  of  knight- 
hood, and  again,  mounted  on  his  peerless  Bavieca,  to  give 
thanks  for  victory  over  the  five  Moorish  kings.  It  was  on 
this  second  journey  that  he  succored  the  leper,  inviting  him, 
with  heroic  disdain  of  hygiene,  to  be  his  bedfellow  "  in  a 
great  couch  with  linen  very  clean  and  costly." 

Even  in  the  ninth  century  such  multitudes  visited  the 
sepulchre  that  a  society  of  hidalgos  was  formed  to  guard  the 
pilgrims  from  bandits  along  that  savage  route,  serve  them  as 
money-changers  in  Compostela,  and  in  all  possible  ways  pro- 
tect them  from  robbery  and  ill-usage.  This  brotherhood  gave 
birth  to  the  famous  Order  of  Santiago,  whose  two  vows  were 
to  defend  the  pilgrims  and  fight  the  Mussulmans.  These 
red-cross  knights  were  as  devout  as  they  were  valiant, 
"  lambs  at  the  sound  of  the  church-bells  and  lions  at  the  call 
of  the  trumpet."  Kings  and  popes  gave  liberally  to  aid  their 
work.  Roads  were  cut  through  Spain  and  France,  even 
Italy  and  Germany,  "  to  Santiago."  Forests  were  cleared, 
morasses  drained,  bridges  built,  and  rest-houses  instituted,  as 


4i 6  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

San  Marcos  at  Leon  and  the  celebrated  hostelry  of  Ronces- 
valles.  Compostela  had  become  a  populous  city,  but  a  city 
of  inns,  hospitals,  and  all  variety  of  conventual  and  religious 
establishments.  Even  to-day  it  can  count  nearly  three  hun- 
dred altars.  In  the  ninth  century  the  modest  church  of 
Alfonso  II  was  replaced  by  an  ornate  edifice  rich  in  treasures, 
but  in  the  gloomy  tenth  century,  when  Christian  energies 
were  arrested  by  the  dread  expectation  of  the  end  of  the 
world,  the  Moors  overran  Galicia  and  laid  the  holy  city 
waste.  The  Moslem  general,  Almanzor,  had  meant  to 
shatter  the  urn  of  Santiago,  but  when  he  entered  Compostela 
with  his  triumphant  troops,  he  found  only  one  defender  there, 
an  aged  monk  sitting  silent  on  the  Apostle's  tomb.  The 
magnanimous  Moor  did  not  molest  him,  nor  the  ashes  his 
feebleness  guarded  better  than  strength,  but  took  abundant 
booty.  When  Almanzor  marched  to  the  south  again,  four 
thousand  Galician  captives  bore  on  their  shoulders  the  treas- 
ures of  the  Apostle,  even  the  church-bells  and  sculptured 
doors,  to  adorn  the  mosque  of  Cordova.  The  fresh  courage 
of  the  eleventh  century  began  the  great  Romanesque  cathedral 
of  Santiago.  Donations  poured  in  from  all  over  Europe. 
Pilgrims  came  bowed  under  the  weight  of  marble  and  granite 
blocks  for  the  fabric.  Young  and  old,  men  and  women, 
beggars  and  peasants,  princes  and  prelates,  had  a  hand  in  the 
building,  cutting  short  their  prayers  to  mix  mortar  and  hew 
stone.  Artists  from  far-off  lands,  who  had  come  on  pilgrim- 
age, lingered  for  years,  often  for  lifetimes,  in  Compostela, 
making  beautiful  the  dwelling  of  the  saint. 

The  great  epoch  of  Santiago  was  the  twelfth  century,  when 
there  succeeded  to  the  bishopric  the  able  and  ambitious  Diego 


The   Building  of  a  Shrine  417 

Gelmirez,  who  resolved  that  Compostela  should  be  recognized 
as  the  religious  centre  of  Spain,  and  be  joined  with  Jerusalem 
and  Rome  in  a  trinity  of  the  supreme  shrines  of  Christendom. 
He  was  a  man  of  masterly  resource,  persistence,  pluck.  Not 
too  scrupulous  for  success,  he  found  all  means  good  that  made 
toward  the  accomplishment  of  his  one  splendid  dream.  The 
clergy  of  Santiago,  who  had  hitherto  borne  but  dubious  repute, 
he  subjected  to  instruction  and  to  discipline,  calling  learned 
priests  from  France  to  tutor  them,  and  sending  his  own,  as 
they  developed  promise,  to  sojourn  in  foreign  monasteries. 
He  zealously  promoted  the  work  on  the  cathedral,  rearing 
arches  proud  as  his  aspiration,  and  watch-towers  strong  as 
his  will.  He  invested  the  sacred  ceremonies,  especially  the 
ecclesiastical  processions,  with  extraordinary  pomp,  so  that 
the  figure  of  Alfonso  VI,  conqueror  of  Toledo,  advancing 
through  the  basilica  in  such  a  solemn  progress,  appeared  less 
imposing  than  the  bishop  himself,  crowned  with  white  mitre, 
sceptred  with  ivory  staff,  and  treading  in  his  gold-embroidered 
sandals  upon  the  broad  stones  that  pave  the  church  as  if  on 
an  imperial  palace  floor.  Gelmirez  was  indefatigable,  too,  in 
building  up  the  city.  Eager  to  swell  the  flood  of  pilgrimage, 
he  founded  in  Compostela,  already  a  cluster  of  shrines  and 
hostelries,  still  more  churches,  inns,  asylums,  hospitals,  to- 
gether with  convents,  libraries,  schools,  and  all  other  recog- 
nized citadels  of  culture.  He  fought  pestilence  and  dirt, 
introducing  an  excellent  water  supply,  and  promoting,  so  far 
as  he  knew  how,  decent  and  sanitary  living.  He  was  even 
a  patron  of  agriculture,  bringing  home  from  his  foreign  jour- 
neys, which  took  him  as  far  as  Rome,  packets  of  new  seed 
slipped  in  among  parcels  of  jewels  and  no  less  precious  bud- 


4i 8  Spanish  Highways  and   Byways 

gets  of  saintly  molars  and  knuckle-bones.  But  these  mis- 
sions abroad,  having  always  for  chief  object  the  pressing  of 
his  petition  upon  the  Holy  See,  involved  costly  presents  to 
influential  prelates,  especially  the  red-capped  cardinals.  The 
revenue  for  such  bribes  he  wrung  from  the  Galician  peasantry, 
who  gave  him  a  measure  of  hate  with  every  measure  of  grain. 
Gelmirez  had  so  many  uses  for  money  that  no  wonder  his 
taxes  cut  down  to  the  quick.  The  lavish  offerings  sent  by 
sea  to  the  shrine  of  Santiago,  ruby-crusted  crucifixes  of  pure 
gold,  silver  reliquaries  sparkling  with  emeralds  and  jacinths, 
pontifical  vestments  of  richest  tissue  and  of  rarest  artistry, 
well-chased  vessels  of  onyx,  pearl,  and  jasper,  all  that  con- 
stant influx  of  glistening  tribute  from  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Christendom,  had  drawn  Moorish  pirates  to  the  Galician  waters. 
To  guard  the  treasure-ships,  repel  the  infidels,  and,  incident- 
ally, return  tit  for  tat  by  plundering  their  galleys,  the  warrior 
bishop  equipped  a  formidable  fleet,  and  kept  it  on  patrol  ofF 
the  coast, — a  strange  development  from  the  little  fishing-boat 
whence  James  and  John  trailed  nets  in  the  lake  of  Galilee. 

The  audacity  of  Gelmirez  reached  its  height  in  his  struggle 
with  the  Queen  Regent,  Urraca  of  unlovely  memory,  for  the 
control  of  the  child  king,  Alfonso  VII.  This  boy  was  the 
grandson  of  Alfonso  VI,  "  Emperor  of  Spain,"  who  survived 
all  his  legitimate  children  except  Urraca.  The  father  of  the 
little  Alfonso,  Count  Raymond  of  Burgundy,  was  dead,  and 
Urraca  had  taken  a  second  husband,  Alfonso  the  Battle-maker. 
The  situation  was  complicated.  The  Battle-maker  wore  the 
crowns  of  Aragon  and  Navarre,  Urraca  was  queen  of  Leon 
and  Castile,  while  the  child,  by  his  grandfather's  will,  inher- 
ited the  lordship  of  Galicia.  The  Bishop  of  Santiago,  who 


The  Building  of  a  Shrine  419 

baptized  the  baby,  had  strenuously  opposed  Urraca's  second 
marriage.  As  that  lady  had,  nevertheless,  gone  her  own  wil- 
ful way,  setting  at  naught  the  bishop's  remonstrance  and 
inciting  Galicia  to  revolt  against  his  tyranny,  Gelmirez  had 
kidnapped  the  royal  child,  a  puzzled  little  majesty  of  four 
summers,  and  solemnly  crowned  and  anointed  him  before  the 
High  Altar  of  St.  James,  declaring  himself  the  protector  of  the 
young  sovereign.  Urraca  soon  wearied  of  her  Aragonese 
bridegroom,  and,  casting  him  off,  took  up  arms  to  defend  her 
territories  against  his  invasion.  The  powerful  bishop  came 
to  her  aid  with  men  and  money.,  but  exacted  in  exchange  an 
oath  of  faithful  friendship,  which  Urraca  gave  and  broke  and 
gave  again.  Meanwhile  the  popular  hatred  swelled  so  high 
against  Gelmirez  that  an  open  insurrection,  in  which  many 
of  his  own  clergy  took  part,  drove  him  and  the  Queen  to  seek 
refuge  in  one  of  the  cathedral  towers,  while  the  rebels  burned 

D  ' 

and  pillaged  in  the  church  below.  The  bishop  barely  escaped 
with  his  life,  fleeing  in  disguise  from  Compostela ;  but  soon 
the  baffled  conspirators  saw.  him  at  his  post  again,  punishing, 
pardoning,  rebuilding  —  as  indomitable  as  St.  James  himself. 
The  election  of  Diego's  friend,  Calixtus  II,  to  the  papacy, 
gave  him  his  supreme  opportunity.  Money  was  the  prime 
requisite,  and  Gelmirez,  not  for  the  first  nor  second  time, 
borrowed  of  the  Apostle,  selling  treasures  from  the  sacristy. 
The  sums  so  raised  were  carried  to  the  Pope,  across  the 
bandit-peopled  mountains,  by  a  canon  of  Santiago  masquerad- 
ing as  a  beggar,  and  by  a  trusty  group  of  particularly  ragged 
pilgrims.  This  proof  of  ecclesiastical  ripeness  overcame  all 
papal  scruples,  and  Calixtus,  despite  the  clamor  of  enemies 
and  rivals,  raised  Santiago  to  the  coveted  archbishopric. 


4-2O  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

The  first  half  of  his  great  purpose  effected,  Gelmirez  strove 
with  renewed  energy  to  wrest  from  Toledo  the  primacy  of 
Spain.  He  fortified  Galicia,  hurled  his  fleet  against  Moorish 
and  English  pirates,  built  himself  an  archiepiscopal  palace 
worthy  of  his  hard-won  dignities,  stole  from  Portugal  the 
skeletons  of  four  saints  to  enhance  the  potency  of  Santiago, 
and  made  much  of  the  skull  of  the  Apostle  James  the  Less, 
which  Urraca  had  presented  in  one  of  her  fits  of  amity.  But 
this  time  the  reverend  robber  was  not  destined  to  success. 
The  Archbishop  of  Toledo  formed  a  powerful  party  against 
him,  Calixtus  died,  even  the  king,  whom  Gelmirez  had  armed 
knight  in  the  cathedral  of  Santiago  and  had  crowned  a  second 
time  at  Leon,  grew  restive  under  the  dictation  of  his  old  tutor. 
The  smouldering  hatred  of  Galicia  again  flamed  out.  The 
aged  archbishop  once  more  had  to  see  his  church  polluted,  its 
treasures  plundered,  its  marvels  of  carved  work,  stained  glass, 
and  gold-threaded  vestments  spoiled  and  wasted  by  that  sense- 
less rabble  which  had  twisted  out  from  under  his  heavy  foot. 
Faint  and  bleeding  from  a  wound  in.  his  head,  too  white  a  head, 
for  all  its  pride,  to  be  battered  with  stones,  Gelmirez  had 
almost  fallen  a  victim  to  the  mob,  when  two  of  his  canons 
snatched  him  back  to  the  refuge  of  the  High  Altar,  barring 
the  iron-latticed  doors  of  the  Capilla  Major  against  those  savage 
sheep  of  his  pasture.  The  outrage  was  so  flagrant  that,  for  very 
shame,  pope  and  king,  though  both  had  accepted  the  bribes  of 
his  enemies,  responded  to  his  appeal,  and  assisted  him  to 
resume  that  rigorous  sway  which  lasted,  all  told,  for  something 
like  forty  years. 

Such  was  the  man  and  such  the  process  that  made  the 
shrine  of  Santiago  the  third  in  rank  of  mediaeval  Christen- 


The  Building  of  a  Shrine  421 

dom.  Under  the  rule  of  Gelmirez  Compostela  had  become 
one  of  the  principal  cities  of  the  Peninsula,  a  seat  of  arts  and 
sciences  where  Spanish  nobles  were  proud  to  build  them 
palaces  and  to  educate  their  sons.  The  mighty  influx  of  pil- 
grims, which  went  on  without  abatement  century  after  century, 
nearly  twenty-five  hundred  licenses  being  granted,  in  the  single 
year  1434,  to  cockle-hatted  visitors  from  England  alone,  filled 
the  place  with  business.  Inn-keepers,  physicians,  money- 
changers, merchants  were  in  flourishing  estate,  and  a  number 
of  special  industries  developed.  One  street  was  taken  up  by 
booths  for  the  sale  of  polished  shells.  Another  bears  still  the 
name  of  the  jet-workers,  whose  rosaries,  crucifixes,  stars, 
gourds,  staffs,  and  amulets  were  in  high  demand.  Souvenirs 
of  Santiago,  little  crosses  delicately  cut  and  chased,  mimic 
churches,  towers,  shrines  gave  employ  to  scores  of  artists  in 
silver  and  mother-of-pearl.  The  enormous  revenue  from  the 
sale  of  phials  of  healing  oil  and  from  the  consecrated  candles 
must  needs  go  to  the  Apostle,  but  the  cunning  craftsmen  who 
loaded  their  stalls  with  love-charms  had  a  well-nigh  equal 
patronage. 

The  finished  cathedral  was  consecrated  in  1211,  and  in 
1236  the  royal  saint,  Fernando  III,  sent  to  Compostela  a 
train  of  Mohammedan  captives,  bringing  back  on  their 
shoulders  the  bells  Almanzor  had  taken.  These  had  been 
hung,  inverted,  in  the  beautiful  mosque  of  Cordova  to  serve 
as  lamps  for  the  infidel  worship,  but  at  last  St.  James  had  his 
own  again.  Thus  Santiago  trampled  on  the  Moors,  and  his 
ashes,  or  what  had  passed  for  his  ashes,  slept  in  peace,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  work  miracles  on  blind  and  crippled 
pilgrims,  until,  in  1589,  an  army  of  English  heretics,  led  by 


Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

the  horrible  Drake,  landed  in  Galicia.  These  Lutheran  dogs 
were  not  worthy  of  a  miracle.  The  archbishop  and  his 
canons,  with  the  enemy  hammering  on  the  gates  of  Com- 
postela,  hastily  took  up  and  reburied  the  three  coffins  of  the 
original  shrine,  so  secretly  that  they  could  not  be  found  again. 
In  1879,  however,  a  miscellany  of  brittle  bits  of  bone  was 
brought  to  light  by  a  party  of  determined  seekers,  and  these 
repulsive  fragments,  after  scientific  analysis  conducted  in  an 
ecclesiastical  spirit,  were  declared  to  be  portions  of  three 
skeletons  which  might  be  ages  old.  Leo  XIII  clenched  the 
matter  by  "  authenticating  "  one  of  them,  apparently  chosen 
at  random,  as  the  body  of  Santiago.  But  although  for  us 
of  the  perverse  sects,  the  contents  of  that  magnificent  silver 
casket,  the  centre  of  the  Santiago  faith,  could  arouse  no  thrill 
of  worship,  the  Pilgrim  City  itself  and  its  storied,  strange 
cathedral  were  the  most  impressive  sights  of  Spain. 


XXVI 

THE    SON    OF    THUNDER 

"  Thou  shield  of  that  faith  which  in  Spain  we  revere, 
Thou  scourge  of  each  foeman  who  dares  to  draw  near, 
Whom  the  Son  of  that  God  who  the  elements  tames 
Called  child  of  the  thunder,  immortal  Saint  James." 

—  Hymn  to  Santiago,  in  George  Borrow's  translation. 

FATIGUES  of  the  journey  and  discomforts  of  our 
lodging  melted  from  memory  like  shadows  of  the 
night  when  we  found  ourselves,  on  the  morning  of 
July  twenty-fourth,  before  that  rich,  dark  mass  of  fretted 
granite,  a  majestic  church  standing  solitary  in  the  midst  of 
spreading  plazas.  These  are  surrounded  by  stately  build- 
ings, the  archiepiscopal  palace  with  its  memories  of  Gelmirez, 
the  royal  hospital  founded  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  for 
the  succor  of  weary  pilgrims,  ancient  colleges  with  sculptured 
facades,  marvellous  old  convents  whose  holy  fathers  were 
long  since  driven  out  by  royal  decree  into  hungry,  homesick 
exile,  and  the  columned  city  hall  with  its  frontal  relief  of  the 
battle  of  Clavijo  and  its  crowning  statue  of  St.  James.  The 
great,  paved  squares,  the  magnificent  stairways  and  deeply 
recessed  portals  were  aglow  with  all  Galicia.  Peasants  in 
gala  dress,  bright  as  tropic  birds,  stood  in  deferential  groups 
about  the  pilgrims,  for  there  were  actual  pilgrims  on  the 

423 


424  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

scene,  men  and  women  whose  broad  hats  and  round  capes 
were  sewn  over  with  scallop-shells,  and  whose  long  staffs 
showed  little  gourds  fastened  to  the  upper  end.  They  wore 
rosaries  and  crucifixes  in  profusion,  and  their  habit  was  span- 
gled with  all  manner  of  charms  and  amulets,  especially  the 
tinsel  medals  with  their  favorite  device  of  St.  James  riding 
down  the  Moors.  We  bought  at  one  of  the  stalls  set  up 
before  the  doors  for  sale  of  holy  wares  a  memento  of  the 
famous  old  jet-work,  a  tiny  black  hand,  warranted,  if  hung 
about  the  neck,  to  cure  disorders  of  the  eyes.  We  fell  to 
chatting  with  a  pilgrim  who  was  shod  in  genuine  sandal 
shoon.  A  large  gourd  was  tied  to  his  belt,  the  rim  of  his 
hat  was  turned  up  at  one  side  and  caught  there  with  a  rosy- 
tinted  shell,  and  his  long,  black  ringlets  fell  loose  upon  his 
shoulders,  framing  a  romantic  Diirer  face.  He  talked  with 
us  in  German,  saying  that  he  was  of  Wittemberg,  and  once 
a  Lutheran,  but  had  been  converted  to  the  true  faith  on  a 
previous  visit  to  Spain.  Since  then  he  had  footed  his  peni- 
tential way  to  Jerusalem  and  other  distant  shrines.  As  his 
simple  speech  ran  on,  we  seemed  to  see  the  mountains  round 
about  Santiago  crossed  by  those  converging  streams  of  mediae- 
val pilgrims,  all  dropping  on  their  knees  at  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  cathedral .  towers.  With  that  sight  the  fainting  were 
refreshed,  the  lame  ran,  and  jubilant  songs  of  praise  to  Santiago 
rolled  out  in  many  languages  upon  the  air. 

"  Primus  ex  apostolis, 
Martir  Jerusolinus, 
Jacobus  egregio, 
Sacer  est  martirio." 

In  those  Ages  of  Faith  all  the  gates  of  the  city  were  choked 


The  Son  of  Thunder  425 

with  the  incoming  tide,  the  hostels  and  cure-houses  overflowed, 
and  the  broad  plazas  about  the  cathedral  were  filled  with  dense 
throngs  of  pilgrims,  massed  nation  by  nation,  flying  their 
national  colors,  singing  their  national  hymns  to  the  strangely 
blended  music  of  their  national  instruments,  and  watching  for 
the  acolyte  who  summoned  them,  company  by  company,  into 
the  august  presence-chamber  of  St.  James.  His  shrine  they 
approached  only  in  posture  of  lowliest  reverence.  Even 
now,  at  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  our  first  glance,  as 
we  entered  the  lofty,  dim,  and  incense-perfumed  nave,  fell  on 
a  woman-pilgrim  dragging  herself  painfully  on  her  knees  up 
the  aisle  toward  the  High  Altar,  and  often  falling  prostrate  to 
kiss  the  pavement  with  groans  and  tears. 

Mediaeval  pilgrims,  when  they  had  thus  won  their  way  to 
the  entrance  of  the  Capilla  Mayor,  and  there  received  three 
light  blows  from  a  priestly  rod  in  token  of  chastisement,  were 
granted  the  due  indulgences  and,  in  turn,  laid  their  offerings 
before  the  great  white  altar.  Still  there  sits,  in  a  niche  above, 
the  thirteenth-century  image  of  St.  James,  a  colossal  figure 
wrought  of  red  granite,  with  stiffly  flowing  vestments  of  elabo- 
rately figured  gilt.  His  left  hand  grasps  a  silver  staff,  with 
gilded  gourd  atop,  and  his  right,  whose  index  finger  points 
downward  to  the  burial  vault,  holds  a  scroll  inscribed,  "  Hie 
est  corpus  divi  Jacobi  Apostoli  ac  Hispaniarum  Patroni." 
Once  he  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat  all  of  pure  gold,  but  this 
was  melted  down  by  Marshal  Ney  in  the  French  invasion. 
At  that  time  the  sacred  vessels  were  heaped  like  market  prod- 
uce into  great  ox-carts,  until  the  cathedral  had  been  plundered 
of  ten  hundredweight  of  treasure.  It  was  "  the  end  of  the 
pilgrimage  "  to  climb  the  steps  behind  this  statue  and  kiss  its 


426  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

resplendent  silver  cape,  studded  with  cockle-shells  and  be- 
sprinkled with  gems.  But  the  pilgrims  of  the  past  had  much 
more  to  see  and  worship,  —  the  jewelled  crown  of  the  Apostle 
set  upon  the  altar,  his  very  hat  and  staff,  the  very  axe  that 
beheaded  him,  and  other  relics  to  which  the  attention  of  the 
modern  tourist,  at  least,  is  not  invited.  Yet  even  we  were 
conducted  to  the  Romanesque  crypt  beneath  the  High  Altar, 
where  stands  another  altar  of  red  marble,  decorated  by  a 
relief  of  two  peacocks  drinking  from  a  cup.  This  altar  is 
surmounted  by  a  bronze  pedestal,  which  bears  the  sumptuous 
ark-shaped  casket  with  its  enshrined  handfuls  of  dubious  dust. 
Our  latter-day  pilgrims  seemed  well  content  with  the  measure 
of  wealth  and  sanctity  which  Moorish  sack  and  English  piracy, 
French  invasion  and  Carlist  wars,  had  spared  to  the  cathedral. 
In  the  matter  of  general  relics,  nevertheless,  Santiago  suffers 
by  comparison  with  the  neighbor  cathedral  of  Oviedo,  which 
proudly  shows  a  silver-plated  old  reliquary,  believed  by  the 
devout  to  have  been  brought  in  the  earliest  Christian  times 
from  Rome.  This  chest  contains,  in  addition  to  the  usual 
pieces  of  the  true  cross  and  thorns  from  the  crown,  such 
remarkable  mementos  as  St.  Peter's  leathern  wallet,  crumbs 
left  over  from  the  Feeding  of  the  Five  Thousand,  bits  of 
roast  fish  and  honeycomb  from  Emmaus,  bread  from  the 
Last  Supper,  manna  from  the  wilderness,  a  portion  of  Moses' 
rod  and  the  mantle  of  Elijah.  Oviedo  possesses,  too,  that 
famous  cross  which  the  angels  made  for  Alfonso  II,  and  one 
of  the  six  water-jars  of  Cana.  But  the  relic  chapel  of  San- 
tiago makes  up  in  quantity  whatever  it  may  lack  in  quality, 
holding  bones,  garments,  hair-tresses,  and  like  memorials  of  a 
veritable  army  of  martyrs,  even  to  what  Ford  disrespectfully 


The  Son  of  Thunder  427 

calls  "  sundry  parcels  of  the  eleven  thousand  Virgins."  Spe- 
cial stress  is  laid  on  a  Calvary  thorn  which  turns  blood-red 
every  Good  Friday,  and  a  drop,  forever  fresh,  of  the  Madonna's 
milk.  If  pilgrims  are  not  satisfied  with  these,  they  can  walk 
out  to  Los  Angeles,  an  adjacent  village,  whose  church  was 
built  by  the  angels.  Eccentric  architects  they  were  in  choos- 
ing to  connect  their  edifice  with  the  cathedral  of  Santiago  by 
an  underground  beam  of  pure  gold,  formerly  one  of  the 
rafters  in  God's  own  house. 

We  had  speech  of  several  pilgrims  that  first  morning.  One 
was  a  middle-aged,  sun-browned,  stubby  little  man,  whom 
during  the  ensuing  week  we  saw  again  and  again  in  the  cathe- 
dral, but  never  begging,  with  the  most  of  the  pilgrims,  at  the 
portals,  nor  taking  his  ease  in  the  cloisters,  —  a  social  prome- 
nade where  the  laity  came  to  gossip  and  the  clergy  to  pufF 
their  cigarettes.  This  humble  worshipper  seemed  to  pass  all 
the  days  of  the  festival  in  enraptured  adoration,  on  his  knees 
now  before  one  shrine,  now  before  another.  We  found  him 
first  facing  the  supreme  architectural  feature  of  the  cathedral, 
that  sublime  and  yet  most  lovely  Portico  de  la  Gloria.  He 
was  gazing  up  at  its  paradise  of  sculptured  saints  and  angels, 
whose  plumes  and  flowing  robes  still  show  traces  of  azure, 
rose,  and  gold,  with  an  expression  of  naive  ecstasy.  He  told 
us  that  he  came  from  Astorga,  and  had  been  nine  days  on  the 
way.  He  spent  most  of  his  time  upon  the  road,  he  added, 
visiting  especially  the  shrines  of  the  Virgin.  "  Greatly  it 
pleases  me  to  worship  God,"  he  said,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and 
ran  on  eagerly,  as  long  as  we  would  listen,  about  the  riches 
and  splendors  of  different  cathedrals,  and  especially  the  robes 
and  jewels  of  the  Virgen  del  Pilar.  He  seemed  in  his  devout 


428  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

affection  to  make  her  wealth  his  own.  One  of  the  most 
touching  effects  of  the  scene  was  the  childlike  simplicity  with 
which  the  poor  of  Galicia,  coming  from  such  vile  hovels,  felt 
themselves  at  home  in  the  dwelling  of  their  saint.  Not  even 
their  sins  marred  their  sense  of  welcome.  In  the  cloisters  we 
encountered  an  old  woman  in  the  pilgrim  dress,  her  staff  wound 
with  gay  ribbons,  limping  from  her  long  jaunt.  She  told  us 
frankly  that  she  was  "  only  a  beggar  "  in  her  own  village,  and 
had  come  for  the  outing  as  well  as  to  please  the  priest,  who, 
objecting  to  certain  misdemeanors  which  she  had  the  discretion 
not  to  specify,  had  prescribed  this  excursion  as  penance.  She 
was  a  lively  old  soul,  and  was  amusing  herself  mightily  with 
the  Goya  tapestries,  and  others,  that  adorned  the  cloisters  in 
honor  of  the  time.  "  You  have  a  book  and  can  read,"  she 
said,  "  and  you  will  understand  it  all,  but  what  can  I  under- 
stand ?  I  can  see  that  this  is  a  queen,  and  she  is  very  fine, 
and  that  those  are  butchers  who  are  killing  a  fat  pig.  But 
we  who  are  poor  may  understand  little  in  this  world  except 
the  love  of  God."  Others  of  the  pilgrims  were  village  folk 
of  Portugal,  and,  taken  all  together,  these  modern  wearers  of 
the  shell  were  but  a  sorry  handful  as  representing  those  noble 
multitudes  who  came,  in  ages  past,  to  bow  before  the  shrine. 
The  fourteen  doors  of  the  cathedral  then  stood  open  night 
and  day,  and  the  grotesque  lions  leaning  out  over  the  lintels 
could  boast  that  there  was  no  tongue  of  Europe  which  their 
stone  ears  had  not  heard.  Three  open  doors  suffice  in  the 
feast  days  now,  but  with  the  new  flood  of  faith  that  has  set 
toward  Lourdes,  pilgrimages  to  Santiago,  as  to  other  Latin 
shrines,  are  beginning  to  revive. 

Mass  was  over  at  the  late  hour  of  our  arrival,  but  nave  and 


The  Son  of  Thunder  429 

aisles,  transepts  and  cloisters,  hummed  with  greetings  of  friends, 
laughter  of  children,  who  sported  unrebuked  about  those  stately 
columns,  and  the  admiring  exclamations  of  strangers.  We 
were  often  accosted  in  Spanish  and  in  French  and  asked  from 
what  country  we  came,  and  if  we  "  loved  the  beautiful  church 
of  the  Apostle."  When  we  were  occasionally  cornered,  and 
driven  in  truthfulness  to  say  that  we  were  Yankees,  our  more 
intelligent  interlocutors  looked  us  over  with  roguish  scrutiny, 
but  increased  rather  than  abated  their  courtesies.  As  for  the 
peasants,  their  geography  is  safely  limited.  Noticing  that  our 
Spanish  differed  from  theirs,  they  said  we  must  be  from  Cas- 
tile, or,  at  the  most,  from  Portugal.  At  all  events  we  were 
strangers  to  Santiago,  and  they  merrily  vied  with  one  another 
in  showing  us  about  and  giving  us  much  graphic  information 
not  to  be  found  in  guide-books. 

Much  of  their  lore  appears  to  be  of  their  own  invention. 
The  superb  Puerto  de  la  Gloria,  wrought  by  a  then 
famous  architect  sent  from  the  king  of  Leon,  but  known 
to  us  to-day  only  as  Master  Mateo,  was  the  fruit  of  twenty 
years'  labor.  This  triple  porch,  which  runs  across  the  west 
end  of  the  nave,  being  finally  completed,  Master  Mateo  seems 
to  have  symbolized  the  dedication  of  his  service  to  the  Apostle 
in  a  kneeling  statue  of  himself,  facing  the  east,  with  back  to 
the  richly  sculptured  pillar  of  the  chief  portal.  The  head  of 
this  figure  is  worn  almost  as  round  and  expressionless  as  a 
stone  ball  by  the  caresses  of  generations  of  childish  hands. 
The  little  girls  whom  we  watched  that  morning  as  they  patted 
and  smoothed  the  much-enduring  pate  told  us,  kissing  the 
marble  eyes,  that  this  was  a  statue  of  St.  Lucia,  which  it 
certainly  is  not.  In  another  moment  these  restless  midgets 


43°  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

were  assaulting,  with  fluent  phrases  of  insult,  the  carven 
faces  of  certain  fantastic  images  which  form  the  bases  of  the 
clustered  columns.  The  children  derisively  thrust  their  feet 
down  the  yawning  throats,  kicked  the  grotesque  ears  and 
noses,  and  in  general  so  maltreated  their  Gothic  victims  that 
we  were  moved  to  remonstrate. 

"  But  why  should  you  abuse  them  ?  What  are  these  crea- 
tures, to  be  punished  so  ?  " 

"  They  are  Jews"  hissed  our  little  Christians  with  an 
emphasis  that  threw  new  light  on  the  Dreyfus  affaire.  But 
an  instant  more,  and  these  vivacious,  capricious  bits  of  Span- 
ish womanhood  were  all  absorbed  in  aiding  a  blind  old  peasant 
who  had  groped  her  way  to  the  sacred  Portico  for  its  especial 
privilege  of  prayer.  The  central  shaft,  dividing  into~two  the 
chief  of  the  three  doorways,  represents  the  Tree  of  Jesse,  the 
patriarchal  figures  half-enveloped  in  exquisitely  sculptured 
foliage.  The  chiselled  capital  shows  the  Trinity,  Dove  and 
Son  and  Father,  with  adoring  angels.  Above  sits  a  benignant 
St.  James,  whose  throne  is  guarded  by  lions,  and  over  all,  in 
the  central  tympanum  of  the  sublime  doorway,  is  a  colossal 
figure  of  our  Lord,  uplifting  His  wounded  hands.  About 
Him  are  grouped  the  four  Evangelists,  radiant  with  eternal 
youth,  and  eight  angels  bearing  the  instruments  of  the  Passion, 
the  pillar  of  the  scourging,  whips,  the  crown  of  thorns,  the 
nails,  the  scroll,  the  sponge,  the  spear,  the  cross.  Other 
angels  burn  incense  before  Him,  and  the  archivolt  above  is 
wrought  with  an  ecstatic  multitude  of  elders,  martyrs,  and 
saints,  so  vivid  after  all  these  centuries  that  one  can  almost 
hear  the  blithe  music  of  their  harps.  It  is  the  Christ  of  Para- 
dise, enthroned  amid  the  blest,  to  whom  His  presence  gives 


TlIK    TRAMI'I.KR    OF    THK    MOORS 


The  Son  of  Thunder  431 

fulness  of  joy  forevermore.  Above  the  lesser  doors  on  either 
side  are  figured  Purgatory  and  Hell.  The  fresh  and  glowing 
beauty,  so  piquant  and  yet  so  spiritual,  the  truly  celestial 
charm  of  this  marvellous  Portico  which  Street  did  not  fear  to 
call  "  one  of  the  greatest  glories  of  Christian  art,"  was  never, 
during  this  festal  week,  without  its  throng  of  reverent  be- 
holders, the  most  waiting  their  turn,  like  our  old  blind  peas- 
ant, to  fit  thumb  and  finger  into  certain  curious  little  hollows 
on  the  central  shaft,  and  thus  offer  prayer  which  was  sure  of 
answer.  Minute  after  minute  for  unbroken  hours,  the  hands 
succeeded  one  another  there, —  old,  knotted,  toil  worn  hands, 
the  small,  brown  hands  of  children,  jewelled  hands  of  delicate 
ladies,  and  often,  as  now,  the  groping  hand  of  blindness,  with 
childish  fingers  helping  it  to  find  those  mystical  depressions  in 
the  agate.  Some  of  the  bystanders  told  us  that  St.  James  had 
descended  from  his  seat  above  the  capital,  and  laid  his  hand 
against  the  column,  leaving  these  traces,  but  more  would  have 
it  that  the  Christ  Himself  had  come  down  by  night  from  the 
great  tympanum  to  place  His  wounded  hand  upon  the  shaft. 
Street  records  that  he  observed  several  such  petitioners,  after 
removing  the  hand,  spit  into  the  mouths  of  the  winged  dragons 
that  serve  as  base  to  the  pillar ;  but  that  literally  dare-devil 
form  of  amen  must  now  have  gone  out  of  fashion,  for  we  did 
not  see  it  once. 

Toward  noon  we  strolled  out  into  the  grand  plaza  before 
the  west  facade  and  found  it  a  multitudinous  jam  of  expectant 
merrymakers.  Even  nuns  were  peeping  down  from  a  leaf- 
veiled  balcony.  We  seemed  to  have  been  precipitated  out  of 
the  Middle  Ages  into  an  exaggerated  Fourth  of  July.  All  the 
city  bells  were  pealing,  rockets  and  Roman  candles  were  sput- 


432  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

tering,  and  grotesque  fire -balloons,  let  off  from  a  parapet  of  the 
cathedral,  flourished  bandy  legs  and  "  Sagasta  noses  "  in  the 
resigned  old  faces  of  the  carven  images.  And  then,  amid 
the  acclamations  of  all  the  small  boys  in  the  square,  sallied 
forth  the  Santiago  giants.  These  wickerwork  monsters, 
eight  all  told,  are  supposed  to  represent  worshippers  from 
foreign  lands.  They  go  by  couples,  two  being  conventional 
pilgrims  with  "  cockle-shell  and  sandal  shoon  "  ;  two  appar- 
ently Moors,  with  black  complexions,  feather  crowns,  and 
much  barbaric  finery  ;  two  nondescripts,  possibly  the  French 
of  feudal  date ;  and  two,  the  leaders  and  prime  favorites, 
regular  Punch  caricatures  of  modern  English  tourists.  John 
Bull  is  a  stout  old  gentleman  with  gray  side-whiskers,  a  vast 
expanse  of  broadcloth  back,  and  a  single  eye-glass  secured  by 
a  lavender  ribbon.  The  British  Matron,  in  a  smart  Dolly 
Varden  frock,  glares  with  a  shocked  expression  from  under 
flaxen  puffs  and  an  ostrich-feathered  hat.  The  popular  atti- 
tude of  mind  toward  these  absurdities  is  past  all  finding  out. 
Not  the  children  alone,  but  the  entire  assemblage  greeted  them 
with  affectionate  hilarity.  The  giants,  propelled  by  men  who 
walked  inside  them  and  grinned  out  on  the  world  from  a  slit 
in  the  enormous  waistbands,  trundled  about  the  square,  fol- 
lowed by  the  antics  of  a  rival  group  of  dwarfs  from  the  city 
h?.ll,  and  then  made  the  round  of  the  principal  streets,  execut- 
ing clumsy  gambols  before  the  public  buildings. 

On  the  morning  after,  July  twenty-fifth,  the  great  day 
of  the  feast,  anniversary  of  the  Apostle's  martyrdom,  these 
same  overgrown  dolls  played  a  prominent  part  in  the  solemn 
cathedral  service.  The  Chapter  passed  in  stately  progress  to 
the  archbishop's  palace  to  fetch  his  Eminence,  and  later  to 


The  Sun  of  Thunder  433 

the  ancient  portals  where  the  silver-workers  once  displayed 
their  wares,  to  greet  the  Royal  Delegate.  At  their  head 
strutted  this  absurd  array  of  giants.  The  High  Mass  was 
superb  with  orchestral  music  and  the  most  sumptuous  robes 
of  the  vestiary.  The  "  King  of  Censers,"  the  splendid  bota- 
fumeiro  of  fourteenth-century  date,  made  so  large,  six  feet  high, 
with  the  view  of  purifying  the  cathedral  air  vitiated  by  the 
hordes  of  pilgrims  who  were  wont  to  pass  the  night  sleeping 
and  praying  on  the  holy  pavements,  flashed  its  majestic  curves, 
a  mighty  fire  bird,  from  roof  to  floor  and  from  transept  to  tran- 
sept. It  is  swung  from  the  ceiling  by  an  ingenious  iron 
mechanism,  and  the  leaping,  roaring  flames,  as  the  huge  cen- 
ser sweeps  with  ever  augmenting  speed  from  vault  to  vault, 
tracing  its  path  by  a  chain  of  perfumed  wreaths,  make  the 
spectacle  uniquely  beautiful.  Knights  of  Santiago,  their 
white  raiment  marked  by  crimson  sword  and  dagger,  received 
from  the  Royal  Delegate  "  a  thousand  crowns  of  gold,"  the 
annual  state  donation,  instituted  by  Rameiro,  to  the  patron 
saint.  The  Delegate,  kneeling  before  the  image  of  Santiago, 
prayed  fervently  that  the  Apostle  would  accept  this  offering 
of  the  regent,  a  queen  no  less  devout  than  the  famous  mother 
of  San  Fernando,  and  would  raise  up  Alfonso  XIII  to  be 
another  Fernando,  winning  back  for  Spain  her  ocean  isles 
which  the  heretics  had  wrested  away,  even  as  Fernando  re- 
stored to  Compostela  the  cathedral  doors  and  bell  which  the 
infidel  Moors  had  stolen.  His  Eminence,  who  is  said  to 
have  accumulated  a  fortune  during  his  previous  archbish- 
opric in  Cuba,  in  turn  besought  St.  James  to  protect  Catholic 
Spain  against  "  those  who  invoke  no  right  save  brute  force, 
and  adore  no  deity  except  the  golden  calf."  In  most  mag- 


434  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

nificent  procession  the  silver  casket  was  borne  around  the 
nave  among  the  kneeling  multitudes.  And  then,  to  crown 
these  august  ceremonies,  forth  trotted  our  friends,  the  giants, 
into  the  open  space  before  the  Capilla  Mayor.  Here  the  six 
subordinate  boobies  paused,  grouping  themselves  in  a  ludi- 
crous semicircle,  while  pompous  John  Bull  and  his  ever  scan- 
dalized British  Matron  went  up  into  the  Holy  of  Holies  and 
danced,  to  the  music  of  guitars  and  tambourines,  in  front  of  the 
High  Altar. 

Every  day  of  that  festal  week  the  cathedral  services  were 
attended  by  devout  throngs,  yet  there  was  something  blithe 
and  social,  well-nigh  domestic,  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  scene 
even  at  the  most  impressive  moments.  Kneeling  groups  of 
peasant  women  caught  the  sunshine  on  their  orange  kerchiefs 
and  scarlet-broidered  shawls.  Here  a  praying  father  would 
gather  his  little  boy,  sobbing  with  weariness,  up  against  his 
breast ;  there  a  tired  pilgrim  woman  slumbered  in  a  corner, 
her  broad  hat  with  its  cockle-shells  lying  on  her  knees.  Rows 
of  kneeling  figures  waited  at  the  wooden  confessionals  which 
were  thick  set  along  both  aisles  and  ambulatory.  Several 
times  we  saw  a  priest  asleep  in  the  confessional,  those  who 
would  pour  out  their  hearts  to  him  kneeling  on  in  humble 
patience,  not  venturing  to  arouse  the  holy  father.  Young 
officers,  leaning  against  the  pillars,  smiled  upon  a  school  of 
Spanish  girls,  who,  guarded  by  veiled  nuns,  knelt  far  along 
the  transept.  Pilgrims,  standing  outside  the  door  to  gather 
alms,  vied  with  one  another  in  stories  of  their  travels  and  the 
marvels  they  had  seen. 

But  at  night,  walking  in  the  illuminated  alameda,  where 
thousands  of  Japanese  lanterns  and  colored  cups  of  flame 


The  Son  of  Thunder  435 

made  a  fantastic  fairyland,  or  dancing  their  country  dances, 
singing  their  country  songs,  practising  their  country  sports, 
and  gazing  with  tireless  delight  at  the  fireworks  in  the 
spacious  Plaza  de  Alfonso  Doce,  the  worshippers  gave  them- 
selves up  to  frankest  merriment.  Through  the  days,  indeed, 
there  was  never  any  lack  of  noisy  jollity.  From  dawn  to 
dawn  again  cannon  were  booming,  drums  beating,  bagpipes 
skirling,  tambourines  clattering,  songs  and  cries  resounding 
through  the  streets.  Four  patients  in  the  hospital  died  the  year 
before,  we  were  told,  from  the  direct  effects  of  this  continuous 
uproar.  But  the  thunder  height  of  the  fiesta  is  attained  toward 
midnight  on  the  twenty-fourth,  the  "  Eve  of  Santiago,"  when 
rockets  and  fire-balloons  are  supplemented  by  such  elaborate 
devices  as  the  burning  of  "  capricious  trees  "  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  a  Moorish  facade  built  for  the  occasion  out  from  the 
west  front  of  the  cathedral.  At  the  first  ignition  of  the 
powder  there  come  such  terrific  crashes  and  reverberating 
detonations,  such  leaps  and  bursts  of  flame,  that  the  peasant 
host  sways  back  and  the  children  scream.  An  Arabic  door- 
way with  ornate  columns,  flanked  on  either  side  by  a  wall  of 
many  arches  and  surmounted  by  a  blood-red  cross,  dazzles 
out  into  overwhelming  brilliancy,  all  in  greens  and  purples, 
a  glowing,  scintillating,  ever  changing  vision.  Soon  it  is 
lustrous  white  and  then,  in  perishing,  sends  up  a  swift  suc- 
cession of  giant  rockets.  The  facade  itself  is  a  very  Alham- 
bra  of  fret  and  arabesque.  This,  too,  with  thunder  bursts 
reveals  itself  as  a  flame-colored,  sky-colored,  sea-colored 
miracle,  which  pales  to  gleaming  silver  and,  while  we  read 
above  it  the  resplendent  words  "  The  Patron  of  Spain,"  is 
blown  to  atoms  as  a  symbol  of  Santiago's  victory  over  the 


436  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

Moors.  This  makes  an  ideal  Spanish  holiday,  but  the  cost, 
borne  by  the  city,  is  heavy,  there  is  distinct  and  increasing 
injury  to  the  cathedral  fabric,  and  all  this  jubilee  for  archaic 
victories  over  the  Moslem  seems  to  be  mocked  by  the  hard 
facts  of  to-day. 

The  Santiago  festivities,  of  which  the  half  has  not  been 
told,  closed  on  Thursday  afternoon,  July  twenty-seventh,  with 
a  procession  through  the  streets.  We  waited  a  weary  while 
for  it  before  the  doors  where  the  old  jet-workers  used  to  set 
their  booths,  amusing  ourselves  meantime  by  watching  the 
house  maids  drawing  water  from  the  fountain  in  the  square 
below.  These  sturdy  Galicians  were  armed  with  long  tin 
tubes  which  they  dextrously  applied  to  the  spouting  mouths 
of  the  fountain  griffins,  so  directing  the  stream  into  the 
straight,  iron-bound  pails.  Not  far  away  the  market  women 
covered  the  flags  with  red  and  golden  fruit.  A  saucy  beggar- 
wench,  with  the  blackest  eyes  in  Spain,  demanded  alms,  and 
when  we  had  yielded  up  the  usual  toll  of  coppers,  loudly 
prayed  to  Santiago  to  pardon  us  for  not  having  given  her 
more  on  this  his  holy  festival.  At  last  out  sallied  the  band, 
followed  by  those  inevitable  giants,  and  amid  mad  ringing  of 
bells  and  fizzing  of  invisible  rockets,  forth  from  the  venerable 
portals  issued  standards,  crosses,  tapers,  priests  in  white  and 
gold,  and  platformed  effigies  of  pilgrims,  saints,  and  deities. 
Then  came  bishops,  cardinals,  and  archbishop,  ranks  of 
military  bearing  tapers,  the  alcalde  and  his  associates  in  the 
city  government  with  antique  escort  of  bedizened  mace- 
bearers,  a  sparkling  statue  of  St.  James  on  horseback  busily 
beheading  his  legions  of  Moors,  a  bodyguard  of  all  the 
pilgrims  in  attendance  on  his  saintship,  and  finally  the  Virgen 


The  Son  of  Thunder  437 

del  Pilar,  at  whose  passing  all  the  concourse  fell  upon  their 
knees.  Churches  in  the  line  of  march  had  their  own  images 
decked  and  ready,  waiting  in  the  colonnaded  porches  to  fall 
into  the  procession.  The  market  women  and  the  maids  at 
the  fountain  threw  kisses  to  the  Christ  Child,  leaning  in  blue 
silk  frock  and  white  lace  tucker  against  a  cross  of  roses,  but 
the  boys  waved  their  caps  for  St.  Michael,  debonair  that 
he  was  with  blowing  crimson  robe,  real  feather  wings  flutter- 
ing in  the  breeze,  and  his  gold  foot  set  on  the  greenest  of 
dragons. 

The  procession  came  home  by  way  of  the  great  west  doors, 
opened  only  this  once  in  the  round  year.  The  setting  sun, 
bringing  out  all  the  carven  beauty  of  that  dark  gray  facade, 
glittered  on  the  golden  balls  and  crosses  that  tip  the  noble 
towers,  and  on  the  golden  staff  of  St.  James  and  the  golden 
quill  of  St.  John,  where  the  two  sons  of  thunder  stand  colossal 
in  their  lofty  niches.  A  baby,  in  yellow  kerchief  and  cherry 
skirt,  toddling  alone  across  the  centre  of  the  square,  pointed 
with  adoring  little  hand  at  the  mounted  image  of  Santiago, 
which  halted  at  the  foot  of  the  grand  stairway,  his  lifted  sword 
a  line  of  golden  light,  while  the  deep-voiced  choir  chanted  his 
old  triumphal  hymn.  John  Bull  and  the  British  Matron, 
stationing  themselves  on  either  side  as  a  guard  of  honor,  stared 
at  him  with  insular  contempt.  As  the  chant  ceased,  St.  James 
chivalrously  made  way  for  the  Virgen  del  Pilar,  a  slender  figure 
of  pure  gold  poised  on  an  azure  tabernacle,  to  mount  the  steps 
before  him.  The  bells  pealed  out  to  welcome  her  as  she 
neared  the  portals,  and  an  ear-splitting  explosion  of  a  monster 
rocket,  with  a  tempest-rain  of  sparks,  announced  the  instant 
of  her  entrance  beneath  the  chiselled  arch.  Behind  her  went 


438  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

the  penitents,  arduously  climbing  the  long  stone  flights  of  that 
quadruple  stairway  upon  their  knees.  These,  too,  were  but 
shadows  of  those  mediaeval  penitents  who  of  old  staggered 
after  this  procession,  bowed  under  the  weight  of  crosses,  or 
scourging  themselves  until  they  fainted  in  their  own  trail  of 
blood.  Yet  it  is  still  strange  and  touching  to  see,  long  after 
the  inner  spaces  of  the  cathedral  are  dim  with  evening,  those 
kneeling  figures  making  their  painful  progress  about  aisles  and 
ambulatory,  sobbing  as  they  go,  and  falling  forward  on  their 
faces  to  kiss  the  pavement  that  is  bruising  them. 


SANTIAGO  CATHEDRAL 


XXVII 

VIGO    AND    AWAY 
Hasta  la  Vista  ! 

OUR  plan  for  the  summer  included  a  return  trip 
across  Spain,  via  Valladolid,  Salamanca,  and  Sara- 
gossa  to  Barcelona  and  the  Balearic  Isles ;  but  the 
bad  food  and  worse  lodging  of  Galicia,  the  blazing  heat  and 
the  incessant,  exhausting  warfare  against  vermin,  had  begun  to 
tell.  That  Spanish  fever  with  which  so  many  foreigners  make 
too  intimate  acquaintance  was  at  our  doors,  and  we  found  our- 
selves forced  at  last  to  sacrifice  enthusiasm  to  hygiene.  The 
most  eccentric  train  which  it  was  ever  my  fortune  to  en- 
counter shunted  and  switched  us  across  country  to  Vigo  in 
about  the  time  it  would  have  taken  to  make  the  journey  don- 
keyback.  Here  we  tarried  for  a  week  or  so,  gathering  strength 
from  the  Atlantic  breezes,  and  when,  one  sunny  August  day, 
a  stately  steamboat  called  for  an  hour  at  Vigo  harbor  on  her 
way  from  Buenos  Ayres  to  Southampton,  we  went  up  over  the 
side.  Our  shock  of  astonishment  at  the  cleanliness  around  us 
could  not,  however,  divert  our  attention  long  from  the  receding 
shores  of  Spain,  toward  which  one  of  us,  at  least,  still  felt  a 
stubborn  longing. 

They  lay  bright  in  the  midday  sunshine,  those  green  up- 
lands of  Galicia,  mysterious  with  that  patient  peasant  life  of 
which  we  had  caught  fleeting,  baffling  glimpses.  Still  we 

439 


44°  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

seemed  to  see  the  brown-legged  women  washing  in  the  brook 
and  spreading  their  coarse-spun,  gay-bordered  garments  on 
the  heather ;  children,  with  the  faces  of  little  Pats  and  little 
Biddies,  tugging  a  bleating  sheep  across  the  stepping-stones, 
or  boosting  an  indignant  goat  over  the  wall ;  lean  pigs 
poking  their  noses  out  of  the  low,  stone  doorways,  where 
babies  slept  on  wisps  of  hay ;  girls  in  cream-colored  ker- 
chiefs, starred  with  gold,  bearing  loads  of  fragrant  brush  or 
corded  fagots  on  their  heads.  As  the  evening;  should  come 

o  o 

on,  and  the  sea-breeze  stir  the  tassels  of  the  maize,  we  knew 
how  the  fields  would  be  dotted  with  impromptu  groups  of 
dancers,  leaping  higher  and  higher  and  waving  their  arms  in 
ever  wilder  merriment,  —  a  scene  pastoral  down  to  the  pigs, 
and  poetic  up  to  those  gushes  of  song  that  delight  the  listener. 

"  I  went  to  the  meadow 

Day  after  day, 
To  gather  the  blossoms 

Of  April  and  May, 
And  there  was  Mercedes, 

Always  there, 
Sweetest  white  lily 

That  breathes  the  air." 

"  North- wind,  North- wind, 

Strong  as  wine  ! 
Blow  thou,  North-wind, 
Comrade  mine  !  " 

"The  Virgin  is  spreading  handkerchiefs 

On  the  rosemary  to  dry. 
The  little  birds  are  singing, 
And  the  brook  is  running  by. 


Vigo  and  Away  441 

The  Virgin  washes  handkerchiefs, 

And  spreads  them  in  the  sun, 
But  St.  Joseph,  out  of  mischief, 

Has  stolen  every  one." 

It  was  only  now  and  then  that  we  had  realized  a  touch  of 
genuine  fellowship  with  these  Galician  peasants.  I  remember 
a  little  thirteenth-century  church,  gray  crosses  topping  its  low 
gray  towers,  one  of  which  was  broken  off  as  if  a  giant  hand 
had  snapped  it.  In  the  porch  a  white-headed  woman,  in  a 
gold-edged  blue  kerchief  and  poppy-red  skirt,  was  holding  a 
dame-school.  It  took  her  all  the  morning  session,  she  told 
us,  to  get  the  fifty  faces  washed,  but  in  the  afternoon  the 
children  learned  to  read  and  knit  and  play  the  choral  games. 
She  had  ten  cents  a  month  for  every  child,  when  the  parents 
were  able  to  pay.  From  a  convenient  hollow  in  a  pillar  of 
Arabic  tradition  she  proudly  drew  her  library,  —  a  shabby 
primer  and  a  few  loose  leaves  of  a  book  of  devotion.  As 
we  talked,  the  midgets  grew  so  restless  and  inquisitive  that 
she  shook  her  long  rod  at  them  with  a  mighty  show  of  fierce- 
ness, and  shooed  them  out  of  the  porch  like  so  many  chickens. 
Then  she  went  on  eagerly  with  the  story  of  her  life,  telling 
how  she  was  married  at  fifteen,  how  her  husband  went  "  to 
serve  the  king  "  in  the  second  Carlist  war,  and  never  came 
back,  and  how  her  only  daughter  had  borne  nine  children,  of 
whom  eight  died  in  babyhood,  "  angelitos  al  cielo"  having 
known  on  earth  "only  the  day  and  the  night."  The  last 
and  youngest  had  been  very  ill  with  the  fever,  and  the  afflicted 
grandmother  had  promised  that  noble  Roman  maiden,  the 
martyr  saint  of  the  little  gray  church,  to  go  around  the  edifice 
seven  times  upon  her  knees,  if  only  the  child  might  live.  The 


442  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

vow  had  been  heard,  as  the  presence  of  a  thin-faced,  wistful 
tot  by  the  old  woman's  side  attested,  but  so  far  only  three  of 
the  seven  circuits  had  been  made.  "It  tires  the  knees  much." 
But  even  with  the  words  she  knelt  again,  kissing  the  sacred 
threshold,  and  began  the  painful,  heavy,  shuffling  journey 
around  the  church,  while  the  baby,  with  wondering  gray  eyes, 
trotted  beside  her,  clinging  to  the  wrinkled  hand.  When  at 
last,  with  puffs  and  groanings,  the  old  dame  had  reached  the 
carven  doorway  again,  she  rose  wearily,  rubbing  her  knees. 
"  A  sweet  saint  !  "  she  said,  "  but  ay  de  mi  !  such  gravel !  " 
We  ought,  of  course,  to  have  been  impressed  in  Galicia 
with  its  debasing  ignorance  and  superstition,  and  so,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  we  were.  We  went  to  see  a  romeria,  a  pilgrimage 
to  a  hilltop  shrine,  on  one  of  our  last  afternoons  in  Vigo, 
and  found  a  double  line  of  dirty,  impudent  beggars,  stripped 
half  naked,  and  displaying  every  sort  of  hideous  deformity, 
—  a  line  that  reached  all  the  way  from  the  carriage-road 
up  the  rugged  ascent  to  the  crest.  We  had  to  run  the  gant- 
let, and  it  was  like  traversing  a  demoniac  sculpture-gallery 
made  up  of  human  mockeries.  We  had  to  push  our  way, 
moreover,  through  scene  after  scene  of  vulgar  barter  in  things 
divine,  and  when  at  last  the  summit  was  achieved,  the  shrine 
of  the  Virgin  seemed  robbed  of  its  glory  by  the  ugliness, 
vice,  and  misery  it  overlooked.  Spain  is  mediaeval,  and  the 
modern  age  can  teach  her  much.  But  with  all  her  physical 
foulness  and  mental  folly,  there  still  dwells  in  her  that  mediae- 
val grace  for  which  happier  countries  may  be  searched  in  vain. 
Yel  Spain  is  far  from  unhappy.  It  is  beautiful  to  see  out 
of  what  scant  allowance  of  that  which  we  call  well-being,  may 
be  evolved  wisdom  and  joy,  poetry  and  religion.  Wearied  as 


Vigo  and  Away  443 

we  two  bookish  travellers  were  with  lectures  and  libraries,  we 
rejoiced  in  this  wild  Galician  lore  that  lives  on  the  lips  of  the 
people.  The  written  Spanish  literature,  like  other  Spanish 
arts,  is  of  the  richest,  nor  are  its  laurels  limited  to  the  dates 
of  Cervantes  and  Calderon.  The  modern  Spanish  novel,  for 
instance,  as  Mr.  Howells  so  generously  insists,  all  but  leads 
the  line.  But  Spain  herself  is  poetry.  What  does  one  want 
of  books  in  presence  of  her  storied,  haunted  vistas,  —  warrior- 
trod  Asturian  crags,  opalescent  reaches  of  Castilian  plain, 
orange-scented  gardens  of  Andalusia  ?  A  circle  of  cultivated 
Spaniards  is  one  of  the  most  charming  groups  on  earth,  but 
Spaniards  altogether  innocent  of  formal  education  may  be 
walking  anthologies  of  old  ballads,  spicy  quatrains,  riddles, 
proverbs,  fables,  epigrams.  The  peasant  quotes  "Don  Quix- 
ote" without  knowing  it;  the  donkey-boy  is  as  lyric  as 
Romeo ;  the  devout  shepherd  tells  a  legend  of  the  Madonna 
that  is  half  the  dream  of  his  own  lonely  days  among  the  hills. 
Where  Spanish  life  is  most  stripped  of  material  prosperity,  it 
seems  most  to  abound  in  suggestions  of  romance.  This  de- 
spised Galicia,  the  province  of  simpletons,  is  literary  in  its 
own  way.  The  hovel  has  no  bookshelf,  but  the  children's 
ears  drink  in  the  grandmother's  croon:  — 

"  On  a  morning  of  St.  John 
Fell  a  sailor  into  the  sea. 
'  What  wilt  thou  give  me,  sailor,  sailor, 
If  I  rescue  thee  ? ' 

"  '  I  will  give  thee  all  my  ships, 
All  my  silver,  every  gem, 
All  my  gold,  —  yea,  wife  and  daughters, 
I  will  give  thee  them.' 


444  Spanish   Highways  and  Byways 

"  «  What  care  I  for  masted  ships, 

What  care  I  for  gold  or  gem  ? 
Keep  thy  wife  and  keep  thy  daughters, 
What  care  I  for  them  ? 

f'e  f  On  the  morning  of  St.  John 

Thou  art  drowning  in  the  sea. 
Promise  me  thy  soul  at  dying, 
And  I'll  rescue  thee.' 

*<  '  I  commend  the  sea  to  God, 
And  my  body  to  the  sea, 
And  my  soul,  Sweet  Mother  Mary, 
I  commit  to  thee.'  ' 

And  well  it  was  for  this  bold  mariner  that  he  did  not  take 
up  the  Devil's  offer,  for  everybody  knows  that  those  who  have 
signed  away  their  souls  to  the  Devil  turn  black  in  the  moment 
of  dying,  and  are  borne,  black  and  horrible,  to  the  sepulchre. 

In  this  northwestern  corner  of  Spain  are  many  mountain- 
songs  as  well  as  sea-songs.  One  of  the  sweetest  tells  how 
the  blue-robed  Virgin  met  a  young  shepherdess  upon  the  hills 
and  was  so  pleased  with  the  maiden's  courtesy  that  she  straight- 
way bore  her  thence  to  Paradise,  not  forgetting,  this  tender 
Mary  of  Bethlehem,  to  lead  the  flock  safely  back  to  the 
sheepfold.  The  love  of  the  Galician  peasantry  for  "  Our 
Lady  "  blends  childlike  familiarity  with  impassioned  devotion. 

"As  I  was  telling  my  beads, 

While  the  dawn  was  red, 
The  Virgin  came  to  greet  me 
With  her  arms  outspread." 

Her  rank  in  their  affections  is  well  suggested  by  another  of 
the  popular  coplas. 


Vigo  and  Away  445 

"  In  the  porch  of  Bethlehem, 

Sun,  Moon,  and  Star, 
The  Virgin,  St.  Joseph, 

And  the  Christ  Child  are." 

With  their  saints  these  Spanish  peasants  seem  almost  on  a 
household  footing,  not  afraid  of  a  jest  because  so  sure  of  the 
love  that  underlies  it. 

"St.  John  and  Mary  Magdalen 

Played  hide  and  seek,  the  pair, 
Till  St.  John  threw  a  shoe  at  her, 
Because  she  didn't  play  fair." 

Yet  there  is  no  lack  of  fear  in  this  rustic  religion.  There 
is  many  a  "  shalt  not "  in  the  Galician  decalogue.  One  must 
not  try  to  count  the  stars,  lest  he  come  to  have  as  many  wrin- 
kles as  the  number  of  stars  he  has  counted.  Never  rock  an 
empty  cradle,  for  the  next  baby  who  sleeps  in  it  will  die.  So 
often  as  you  name  the  Devil  in  life,  so  often  will  he  appear  to 
you  in  the  hour  of  death.  If  you  hear  another  name  him, 
call  quickly,  before  the  Devil  has  time  to  arrive,  "Jesus  is 
here."  It  is  ill  to  dance  alone,  casting  your  shadow  on  the 
wall,  because  that  is  dancing  with  the  Devil.  But  the  Prince 
of  Darkness  is  not  the  only  supernatural  being  whom  Gali- 
cians  dread.  There  is  a  bleating  demon  who  makes  fun  of 
them,  cloudy  giants  who  stir  up  thunderstorms,  and  are 
afraid  only  of  St.  Barbara,  witches  who  cast  the  evil  eye, 
but  most  of  all  the  "  souls  in  pain."  For  oftentimes  the  dead 
come  back  to  earth  for  their  purgatorial  penance.  You  must 
never  slam  a  door,  nor  close  a  window  roughly,  nor  kick  the 
smallest  pebble  from  your  path,  because  in  door  or  stone  or 


446  Spanish   Highways  and   Byways 

window  may  be  a  suffering  soul.  To  see  one  is  to  die  within 
the  year.  If  you  would  not  be  haunted  by  your  dead,  kiss  the 
shoes  which  the  body  wears  to  the  burial. 

It  is  well  to  go  early  to  bed,  for  at  midnight  all  manner 
of  evil  beings  prowl  up  and  down  the  streets.  Who  has 
not  heard  of  that  unlucky  woman,  who,  after  spinning 
late  and  long,  stepped  to  the  window  for  a  breath  of  air 
exactly  at  twelve  o'clock  ?  Far  off  across  the  open  country 
she  saw  a  strange  procession  of  shining  candles  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer,  although  there  were  no  hands  to  hold 
them  and  no  sound  of  holy  song.  Straight  toward  her  house 
came  those  uncanny  lights,  moving  silently  through  the 
meadow  mists,  and  halted  beneath  her  window.  Then  the 
foremost  one  of  all  begged  her  to  take  it  in  and  keep  it  care- 
fully until  the  midnight  following.  Scarcely  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  closed  her  fingers  on  the  cold  wax  and,  blowing 
out  the  flame,  laid  away  the  taper  in  a  trunk,  but  when,  at 
daybreak,  after  a  sleepless  night,  she  raised  the  lid,  before  her 
lay  a  corpse.  Aghast,  she  fled  to  the  priest,  who  lent  her  all 
the  relics  of  the  sacristy ;  but  their  united  power  only  just 
availed  to  save  her  from  the  fury  of  the  spirits  when  they 
returned  at  midnight  to  claim  the  taper,  expecting,  moreover, 
to  seize  upon  the  woman  and  "  turn  her  to  fire  and  ashes." 

Sometimes  a  poor  soul  is  permitted  to  condense  the  slow  ages 
of  Purgatory  into  one  hour  of  uttermost  torment.  Galicians 
tell  how  a  young  priest  brought  his  serving-maid  to  sorrow 
and  how,  to  escape  the  latter  burning,  she  shut  herself,  one 
day  when  the  priest  was  engaged  in  the  ceremonial  of  High 
Mass,  into  the  red-hot  oven.  On  his  return,  he  called  her 
name  and  sought  her  high  and  low,  and  when,  at  last,  he 


ST.  JAMES 


Vigo  and  Away  447 

opened  the  oven  door,  out  flew  a  white  dove  that  soared,  a 
purified  and  pardoned  soul,  into  the  blue  of  heaven.  The 
science  of  this  simple  folk  is  not  divorced  from  poetry  and 
religion.  The  rainbow  drinks,  they  say,  in  the  sea  and  in  the 
rivers.  The  Milky  Way,  the  Road  to  Santiago,  is  trodden 
every  night  by  pale,  dim  multitudes  who  failed  to  make  that 
blessed  pilgrimage,  from  which  no  one  of  us  will  be  excused, 
in  time  of  life.  When  the  dust  stirs  in  an  empty  house,  good 
St.  Ana  is  sweeping  there.  When  babies  look  upward  and 
laugh,  they  see  the  cherubs  at  play.  Tuesday  is  the  unlucky 
day  in  Spain,  whereas  children  born  on  Friday  receive  the  gift 
of  second-sight,  and  those  who  enter  the  world  on  Good 
Friday  are  marked  by  a  cross  in  the  roof  of  the  mouth  and 
have  the  holy  touch  that  cures  diseases.  It  is  a  fortunate 
house  beneath  whose  eaves  the  swallow  builds, 

"  For  swallows  on  Mount  Calvary 

Plucked  tenderly  away 

From  the  brows  of  Christ  two  thousand  thorns, 
Such  gracious  birds  are  they." 

The  Galicians,  butt  of  all  Spain  for  their  dulness,  are  shrewd 
enough  in  fact.  It  is  said  that  those  arrant  knaves,  the  gypsies, 
dare  not  pass  through  Galicia  for  fear  of  being  cheated. 
Like  other  unlettered  peasants,  Gallegos  whet  their  wits  on 
rhyming  riddles. 

"  Who  is  the  little  pigeon, 

Black  and  white  together, 
That  speaks  so  well  without  a  tongue 

And  flies  without  a  feather  ? ' ' 

"  A  tree  with  twelve  boughs  and  four  nests  on  a  bough, 
In  each  nest  seven  birdlings,  — unriddle  me  now." 


448  Spanish  Highways  and  Byways 

In  many  of  their  proverbial  sayings  one  gets  the  Spanish 
tang  at  its  best.  "  A  well-filled  stomach  praises  God." 

"  Why  to  Castile 

For  your  fortune  go  ? 
A  man's  Castile 
Is  under  his  hoe." 

And  I  fear  if  my  comrade  were  to  speak,  in  Spanish  phrase, 
of  our  return  to  Galicia,  she  would  bid  St.  James  expect  us 
"on  Judgment  Day  in  the  afternoon." 


(dorks  by  HUce  JMorse  Garle 

CHILD  LIFE  IN  COLONIAL  DAYS 

Profusely  Illustrated 
Crown  8vo.    Cloth.    Gilt  top.     $2.50 

Commercial  Advertiser: 

"Once  more  Mrs.  Earle  has  drawn  on  her  apparently  inexhaustible  store 
of  colonial  lore,  and  has  produced  another  interesting  book  of  the  olden 
days.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Earle's  interesting  style,  the  accuracy  of  her  statements, 
and  the  attractive  illustrations  she  always  supplies  for  her  books  make  the 
volume  one  to  be  highly  prized." 

Buffalo  Express : 

"  Mrs.  Alice  Morse  Earle  performs  a  real  historical  service,  and  writes  an 
interesting  book.  It  is  not  a  compilation  from,  or  condensation  of,  pre- 
vious books,  but  the  fruit  of  personal  and  original  investigation  into  the 
conditions  of  life  in  the  American  colonies." 


HOME  LIFE  IN  COLONIAL  DAYS 

Education : 

"  Mrs.  Earle  has  made  a  very  careful  study  of  the  details  of  domestic  life 
from  the  earliest  days  of  the  settlement  of  the  country.  The  book  is 
sumptuously  illustrated,  and  every  famed  article,  such  as  the  spinning- 
wheel,  the  foot-stone,  the  brass  knocker  on  the  door,  and  the  old-time 
cider  mill,  is  here  presented  to  the  eye,  and  faithfully  picture^!  in  words. 
The  volume  is  a  fascinating  one,  and  the  vast  army  of  admirers  and  stu- 
dents of  the  olden  days  will  be  grateful  to  the  author  for  gathering  together 
and  putting  into  permanent  form  so  much  accurate  information  concerning 
the  homes  of  our  ancestors." 

Literature : 

"  Mrs.  Earle's  fidelity  in  study  and  her  patient  research  are  evident  on 
every  page  of  this  charming  book,  and  her  pleasantly  colloquial  style  is 
frequently  assisted  by  very  beautiful  illustrations,  both  of  the  houses  of  the 
colonists,  from  the  primitive  cave  dug  out  of  the  hillside  and  made  to 
answer  for  warmth  and  shelter,  to  the  more  comfortable  log  cabin,  the 
farmstead  with  its  adjacent  buildings,  and  the  stately  mansion  abiding  to 
our  own  day." 


THE    MACMII  LAN    COMPANY 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE     NEW   YORK 


AMONG   ENGLISH   HEDGEROWS 

By  CLIFTON   JOHNSON 

With  an  Introduction  by  HAMILTON  JV.  MABIE 
Illustrated.    Cr.  8vo.    Cloth  extra.    Gilt  top.    $2.25 

"'Among  English  Hedgerows'  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  illus 
trated  books,  containing,  as  it  does,  a  great  number  of  half-tone  repro- 
ductions of  Mr.  Johnson's  admirable  photographs. 

"  The  author,  as  far  as  possible,  lived  the  life  of  the  people  who  figure  in 
these  pages,  and  we  have  delightful  accounts  of  village  characters,  and 
glimpses  of  quaint  old  English  homes. 

"  Hamilton  W.  Mabie,  who  furnishes  the  introduction,  well  summarizes 
Mr.  Johnson's  merits  as  '  a  friendly  eye,  a  hearty  sympathy,  and  a  very 
intelligent  camera,  and  that  love  of  his  field  and  of  his  subject  which  is 
the  prime  characteristic  of  the  successful  painter  of  rural  life  and  country 
folk.'  "  —  Illustrated  Buffalo  Express, 


ALONG   FRENCH   BYWAYS 

By  CLIFTON  JOHNSON 
Illustrated.    Cr.  8vo.    Cloth  extra.    Gilt  top.    $2.25 

"  A  book  of  leisurely  strolling  through  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
countries  of  Europe,  enlivened  with  description  and  anecdote,  and  pro- 
fusely illustrated.  .  .  .  Mr.  Johnson  is  not  only  a  delightful  writer,  but  is 
one  of  the  best  landscape  photographers  of  whom  we  have  knowledge."  — 
Boston  Transcript. 

"This  book  shares  the  merits  of  Mr.  Johnson's  « Among  English  Hedge- 
rows ' :  simplicity  of  theme  and  treatment,  sympathy  and  love  of  nature." 
—  The  Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  book  of  strolling,  a  book  of  nature,  a  book  of  humble  peasant  life 
intermingled  with  the  chance  experiences  of  the  narrator." —  The  Worcester 
Spy. 


66   FIFTH   AVENUE,    NEW   YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF 


*   TTW1»\RY.  LOS  ANGELT 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


mm 


315 


College 
Library 


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